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'DO    I    SEEM    SO    USELESS?" 


BEAUTY 

AND 

THE  JACOBIN 

AN    INTERLUDE    OF 

THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION 

BY 
BOOTH   TARKINGTON 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

C.    D.  WILLIAMS 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND     LONDON 

M  CMX I  I 


COPYRIGHT.    1912.    BY    HARPER   ft    BROTHERS 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 
PUBLISHED   OCTOBER,    1812 


I-M 


TO 
FENTON    WHITLOCK    BOOTH 


2064887 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"DO  I   SEEM   SO   USELESS?" Frontispiece 

"i  DO  NOT  UNDERSTAND" Facing  p.  22 

VALSIN "         38 

ELOISE  D'ANVILLE 70 

"OH,    TOUCHING    DEVOTION!    OH,    SISTERS!    OH, 

LOVE!    OH,  HONEY!    OH,  PETTICOATS — "  .    .      "      96 


The  author  makes  his  appearance,  not  now  "as 
a  showman  before  his  tent"  nor  to  entreat  his 
audience  to  be  seated  in  an  orderly  manner,  but 
to  invite  any  who  may  be  listening  to  come  upon 
the  very  scene  itself  of  this  drama,  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  theater,  and  there,  invisi 
ble,  attend  what  follows. 


BEAUTY    AND    THE 
JACOBIN 


Our  scene  is  in  a  rusty  lodging-house  of  the 
Lower  Town,  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  and  the  time, 
the  early  twilight  of  dark  November  in  northern 
France.  This  particular  November  is  dark  in 
deed,  for  it  is  November  of  the  year  1793, 
Frimaire  of  the  Terror.  The  garret  room  dis 
closed  to  us,  like  the  evening  lowering  outside 
its  one  window,  and  like  the  times,  is  mysteri 
ous,  obscure,  smoked  with  perplexing  shadows; 
these  flying  and  staggering  to  echo  the  shiftings 
of  a  young  man  writing  at  a  desk  by  the  light 
of  a  candle. 

We  are  just  under  the  eaves  here;  the  dim 
ceiling  slants ;  and  there  are  two  doors :  that  in 
the  rear  wall  is  closed ;  the  other,  upon  our  right, 
and  evidently  leading  to  an  inner  chamber,  we 
find  ajar.  The  furniture  of  this  mean  apart- 
[i] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ment  is  chipped,  faded,  insecure,  yet  still  pos 
sessed  of  a  haggard  elegance ;  shamed  odds  and 
ends,  cheaply  acquired  by  the  proprietor  of  the 
lodging-house,  no  doubt  at  an  auction  of  the 
confiscated  leavings  of  some  emigrant  noble. 
The  single  window,  square  and  mustily  cur 
tained,  is  so  small  that  it  cannot  be  imagined 
to  admit  much  light  on  the  brightest  of  days; 
however,  it  might  afford  a  lodger  a  limited  view 
of  the  houses  opposite  and  the  street  below.  In 
fact,  as  our  eyes  grow  accustomed  to  the  ob 
scurity  we  discover  it  serving  this  very  purpose 
at  the  present  moment,  for  a  tall  woman  stands 
close  by  in  the  shadow,  peering  between  the 
curtains  with  the  distrustfulness  of  a  picket 
thrown  far  out  into  an  enemy's  country.  Her 
coarse  blouse  and  skirt,  new  and  as  ill-fitting  as 
sacks,  her  shop- woman's  bonnet  and  cheap  veil, 
and  her  rough  shoes  are  naively  denied  by 
her  sensitive,  pale  hands  and  the  high-bred 
and  in-bred  face,  long  profoundly  marked  by 
loss  and  fear,  and  now  very  white,  very  watch 
ful.  She  is  not  more  than  forty,  but  her  hair, 
glimpsed  beneath  the  clumsy  bonnet,  shows 
much  grayer  than  need  be  at  that  age.  This  is 
Anne  de  Laseyne. 

[f] 


BEAUTY   AND  THE   JACOBIN 

The  intent  young  man  at  the  desk,  easily 
recognizable  as  her  brother,  fair  and  of  a  sin 
gular  physical  delicacy,  is  a  finely  completed 
product  of  his  race;  one  would  pronounce  him 
gentle  in  each  sense  of  the  word.  His  costume 
rivals  his  sister's  in  the  innocence  of  its  attempt 
at  disguise:  he  wears  a  carefully  soiled  carter's 
frock,  rough  new  gaiters,  and  a  pair  of  danger 
ously  aristocratic  shoes,  which  are  not  too  dusty 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  are  of  excellent 
make  and  lately  sported  buckles.  A  tousled 
cap  of  rabbit-skin,  exhibiting  a  tricolor  cockade, 
crowns  these  anomalies,  though  not  at  present 
his  thin,  blond  curls,  for  it  has  been  tossed  upon 
a  dressing-table  which  stands  against  the  wall 
to  the  left.  He  is  younger  than  Madame  de 
Laseyne,  probably  by  more  than  ten  years ;  and, 
though  his  features  so  strikingly  resemble  hers, 
they  are  free  from  the  permanent  impress  of 
pain  which  she  bears  like  a  mourning-badge 
upon  her  own. 

He  is  expending  a  feverish  attention  upon  his 
task,  but  with  patently  unsatisfactory  results; 
for  he  whispers  and  mutters  to  himself,  bites 
the  feather  of  his  pen,  shakes  his  head  forebod 
ingly,  and  again  and  again  crumples  a  written 
[3] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

sheet  and  throws  it  upon  the  floor.  Whenever 
this  happens  Anne  de  Laseyne  casts  a  white 
glance  at  him  over  her  shoulder — his  desk  is  in 
the  center  of  the  room — her  anxiety  is  visibly 
increased,  and  the  temptation  to  speak  less  and 
less  easily  controlled,  until  at  last  she  gives  way 
to  it.  Her  voice  is  low  and  hurried. 

ANNE.  Louis,  it  is  growing  dark  very  fast. 

Louis.  I  had  not  observed  it,  my  sister. 

[He  lights  a  second  candle  from 
the  first;  then,  pen  in  mouth, 
scratches  at  his  writing  with  a 
little  knife.] 

ANNE.  People  are  still  crowding  in  front  of 
the  wine-shop  across  the  street. 

Louis  [smiling  with  one  side  of  his  mouth]. 
Naturally.  Reading  the  list  of  the  proscribed 
that  came  at  noon.  Also  waiting,  amiable 
vultures,  for  the  next  bulletin  from  Paris.  It 
will  give  the  names  of  those  guillotined  day  be 
fore  yesterday.  For  a  good  bet:  our  own  names 
[he  nods  toward  the  other  room] — yes,  hers, 
too — are  all  three  in  the  former.  As  for  the 
latter — well,  they  can't  get  us  in  that  now. 

ANNE  [eagerly].  Then  you  are  certain  that 
we  are  safe? 

[4] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis.  I  am  certain  only  that  they  cannot 
murder  us  day  before  yesterday. 

[As  he  bends  his  head  to  his  writ 
ing  a  woman  comes  in  languidly 
through  the  open  door,  bearing  an 
armful  of  garments,  among  which 
one  catches  the  gleam  of  fine  silk, 
glimpses  of  lace  and  rich  furs 
— a  disordered  burden  which  she 
dumps  pell-mell  into  a  large  port 
manteau  lying  open  upon  a  chair 
near  the  desk.  This  new-comer  is 
of  a  startling  gold  -  and  -  ivory 
beauty;  a  beauty  quite  literally 
striking,  for  at  the  very  first  glance 
the  whole  force  of  it  hits  the  be 
holder  like  a  snowball  in  the  eye; 
a  beauty  so  obvious,  so  completed, 
so  rounded,  that  it  is  painful;  a 
beauty  to  rivet  the  unenvious 
stare  of  women,  but  from  the  full 
blast  of  which  either  king  or  man- 
peasant  would  stagger  away  to 
the  confessional.  The  egregious 
luster  of  it  is  not  breathed  upon 
even  by  its  overspreading  of  sul- 
[5] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

len  revolt,  as  its  possessor  care 
lessly  arranges  the  garments  in 
the  portmanteau.  She  wears  a 
dress  all  gray,  of  a  coarse  texture, 
but  exquisitely  fitted  to  her;  noth 
ing  could  possibly  be  plainer,  or  of 
a  more  revealing  simplicity.  She 
might  be  twenty-two;  at  least  it 
is  certain  that  she  is  not  thirty. 
At  her  coming,  Louis  looks  up 
with  a  sigh  of  poignant  wist- 
fulness,  evidently  a  habit;  for  as 
he  leans  back  to  watch  her  he 
sighs  again.  She  does  not  so 
much  as  glance  at  him,  but  speaks 
absently  to  Madame  de  Laseyne. 
Her  voice  is  superb,  as  it  should 
be;  deep  and  musical,  with  a 
faint,  silvery  huskiness.] 

ELOISE  [the  new-comer].  Is  he  still  there? 

ANNE.  I  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  crowd.  I 
think  he  has  gone.  If  only  he  does  not  come 
back! 

Louis  [with  grim  conviction].  He  will. 

ANNE.  I  am  trying  to  hope  not. 

ELOISE.  I  have  told  you  from  the  first  that 
[6] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

you  overestimate  his  importance.     Haven't  I 
said  it  often  enough  ? 
ANNE  [under  her  breath].  You  have! 
ELOISE  [coldly].  He  will  not  harm  you. 
ANNE   [looking  out   of  the  window].  More 
people  down  there;    they  are  running  to  the 
wine-shop. 

Louis.  Gentle  idlers! 

[The  sound  of  triumphant  shout 
ing  comes  up  from  the  street 
below.] 

That  means  that  the  list  of  the  guillotined  has 
arrived  from  Paris. 

ANNE  [shivering].  They  are  posting  it  in  the 
wine-shop    window. 

[The  shouting  increases  suddenly 
to  a  roar  of  hilarity,  in  which  the 
shrilling  of  women  mingles.] 
Louis.  Ah!     One  remarks  that  the  list  is  a 
long  one.     The  good  people  are  well  satisfied 
with   it.     [To    ELOISE.]     My   cousin,    in   this 
amiable  populace  which  you  champion,  do  you 
never  scent  something  of — well,  something  of 
the  graveyard  scavenger? 

[She  offers  the  response  of  an  un 
moved  glance  in  his  direction,  and 
[7] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

slowly  goes  out  by  the  door  at 
which  she  entered.  Louis  sighs 
again  and  returns  to  his  scrib 
bling.] 

ANNE    [nervously].     Haven't    you   finished, 
Louis  ? 

Louis    [indicating    the    floor    strewn    with 
crumpled  slips  of  paper].  A  dozen. 
ANNE.  Not  good  enough? 
Louis  [with  a  rueful  smile].  I  have  lived  to 
discover  that  among  all  the  disadvantages  of 
being  a  Peer  of  France  the  most  dangerous  is 
that  one  is  so  poor  a  forger.     Truly,  however, 
our  parents  are  not  to  be  blamed  for  neglecting 
to  have  me  instructed  in  this  art;  evidently 
they  perceived  I  had  no  talent  for  it. 

[Lifting  a  sheet  from  the  desk.] 
Oh,  vile !     I  am  not  even  an  amateur. 

[He  leans  back,  tapping  the  paper 
thoughtfully  with  his  pen.] 
Do  you  suppose  the  Fates  took  all  the  trouble 
to  make  the  Revolution  simply  to  teach  me 
that  I  have  no  skill  in  forgery?     Listen. 

[He  reads  what  he  has  written.] 
"Committee  of  Public  Safety.     In  the  name  of 
the  Republic.     To  all  Officers,  Civil  and  Mili- 
[8] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

tary:  Permit  the  Citizen  Balsage" — that's  my 
self,  remember — "and  the  Citizeness  Virginie 
Balsage,  his  sister" — that's  you,  Anne — "and 
the  Citizeness  Marie  Balsage,  his  second  sister" 
— that  is  Eloise,  you  understand — "to  embark 
in  the  vessel  Jeune  Pierrette  from  the  port  of 
Boulogne  for  Barcelona.  Signed:  Billaud  Va- 
rennes.  Carnot.  Robespierre."  Execrable! 
[He  tears  up  the  paper,  scattering 
the  fragments  on  the  floor.] 
I  am  not  even  sure  it  is  the  proper  form.  Ah, 
that  Dossonville! 

ANNE.  But  Dossonville  helped  us — 

Louis.  At  a  price.  Dossonville!  An  in 
dividual  of  marked  attainment,  not  only  in 
penmanship,  but  in  the  art  of  plausibility. 
Before  I  paid  him  he  swore  that  the  passports 
he  forged  for  us  would  take  us  not  only  out  of 
Paris,  but  out  of  the  country. 

ANNE.  Are  you  sure  we  must  have  a  separate 
permit  to  embark? 

Louis.  The  captain  of  the  Jeune  Pierrette 
sent  one  of  his  sailors  to  tell  me.  There  is  a 
new  Commissioner  from  the  National  Com 
mittee,  he  said,  and  a  special  order  was  issued 
this  morning.  They  have  an  officer  and  a  file 

2  [9] 


of  the  National  Guard  on  the  quay  to  see  that 
the  order  is  obeyed. 

ANNE.  But  we  bought  passports  in  Paris. 
Why  can't  we  here? 

Louis.  Send  out  a  street-crier  for  an  accom 
plished  forger?  My  poor  Anne!  We  can  only 
hope  that  the  lieutenant  on  the  quay  may  be 
drunk  when  he  examines  my  dreadful  "permit." 
Pray  a  great  thirst  upon  him,  my  sister! 
[He  looks  at  a  watch  which  he 
draws  from  beneath  his  frock.] 
Four  o'clock.  At  five  the  tide  in  the  river  is 
poised  at  its  highest;  then  it  must  run  out, 
and  the  Jeune  Pierrette  with  it.  We  have  an 
hour.  I  return  to  my  crime. 

[He  takes  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper 
and  begins  to  write.] 
ANNE  [urgently].  Hurry,  Louis! 
Louis.  Watch  for  Master  Spy. 
ANNE.  I  cannot  see  him. 

[There  is  silence  for  a  time,  broken 
only  by  the  nervous  scratching 
of  Louis's  pen.] 

Louis  [at  work].  Still  you  don't  see  him? 
ANNE.  No.     The  people  are  dispersing.  They 
seem  in  a  good  humor. 

[10] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis.  Ah,  if  they  knew — 

[He  breaks  off,  examines  his  latest 
effort  attentively,  and  finds  it 
unsatisfactory,  as  is  evinced  by 
the  noiseless  whistle  of  disgust 
to  which  his  lips  form  themselves. 
He  discards  the  sheet  and  begins 
another,  speaking  rather  absently 
as  he  does  so.] 

I  suppose  I  have  the  distinction  to  be  one  of 
the  most  hated  men  in  our  country,  now  that 
all  the  decent  people  have  left  it — so  many 
by  a  road  something  of  the  shortest!  Yes, 
these  merry  gentlemen  below  there  would  be 
still  merrier  if  they  knew  they  had  within 
their  reach  a  forfeited  "Emigrant."  I  wonder 
how  long  it  would  take  them  to  climb  the 
breakneck  flights  to  our  door.  Lord,  there'd 
be  a  race  for  it!  Prize-money,  too,  I  fancy, 
for  the  first  with  his  bludgeon. 

ANNE  [lamentably].  Louis,  Louis!    Why  did 
n't  you  lie  safe  in  England? 

Louis  [smiling].  Anne,  Anne!     I  had  to  come 
back  for  a  good  sister  of  mine. 

ANNE.  But  I  could  have  escaped  alone. 
Louis.  That  is  it— "alone"! 
[n] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

[He  lowers  his  voice  as  he  glances 
toward  the  open  door.] 

For  she  would  not  have  moved  at  all  if  I  hadn't 
come  to  bully  her  into  it.  A  fanatic,  a  fa 
natic  ! 

ANNE  [brusquely].  She  is  a  fool.  Therefore 
be  patient  with  her. 

Louis  [warningly].  Hush. 
ELOISE   [in  a  loud,   careless  tone  from  the 
other  room].   Oh,  I  heard  you!     What  does  it 
matter? 

[She  returns,  carrying  a  hand 
some  skirt  and  bodice  of  bro 
cade  and  a  woman's  long  man 
tle  of  light-green  cloth,  hooded 
and  lined  with  fur.  She  drops 
them  into  the  portmanteau  and 
closes  it.] 
There!  I've  finished  your  packing  for  you. 

Louis  [rising].  My  cousin,  I  regret  that  we 
could  not  provide  servants  for  this  flight. 
[Bowing  formally.]  I  regret  that  we  have  been 
compelled  to  ask  you  to  do  a  share  of  what  is 
necessary. 

ELOISE  [turning  to  go  out  again].  That  all? 
Louis  [lifting  the  portmanteau].  I  fear — 
[12] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ELOISE  [with  assumed  fatigue].  Yes,  you 
usually  do.  What  now? 

Louis  [flushing  painfully].  The  portmanteau 
is  too  heavy. 

[He  returns  to  the  desk,  sits,  and 
busies  himself  with  his  writing, 
keeping  his  grieved  face  from  her 
view.] 

ELOISE.  You  mean  you're  too  weak  to  carry- 
it? 

Louis.  Suppose  at  the  last  moment  it  be 
comes  necessary  to  hasten  exceedingly — 

ELOISE.  You  mean,  suppose  you  had  to 
run,  you'd  throw  away  the  portmanteau. 
[Contemptuously.]  Oh,  I  don't  doubt  you'd 
do  it! 

Louis  [forcing  himself  to  look  up  at  her 
cheerfully].  I  dislike  to  leave  my  baggage  upon 
the  field,  but  in  case  of  a  rout  it  might  be  a 
temptation — if  it  were  an  impediment. 

ANNE  [peremptorily].  Don't  waste  time. 
Lighten  the  portmanteau. 

Louis.  You  may  take  out  everything  of 
mine. 

ELOISE.  There's  nothing  of  yours  in  it  except 
your  cloak.     You  don't  suppose — 
[13] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ANNE.  Take  out  that  heavy  brocade  of 
mine. 

ELOISE.  Thank  you  for  not  wishing  to  take 
out  my  fur-lined  cloak  and  freezing  me  at 
sea! 

Louis  [gently].  Take  out  both  the  cloak  and 
the  dress. 

ELOISE   [astounded].  What! 
Louis.  You  shall  have  mine.     It  is  as  warm, 
but  not  so  heavy. 

ELOISE    [angrily].  Oh,    I   am   sick   of   your 
eternal  packing  and  unpacking!     I  am  sick  of 
it! 
ANNE.  Watch  at  the  window,  then. 

[She  goes  swiftly  to  the  portman 
teau,  opens  it,  tosses  out  the 
green  mantle  and  the  brocaded 
skirt  and  bodice,  and  tests  the 
weight  of  the  portmanteau.] 
I  think  it  will  be  light  enough  now,  Louis. 

Louis.  Do  not  leave  those  things  in  sight. 
If  our  landlord  should  come  in — 

ANNE.  I'll  hide  them  in  the  bed  in  the  next 
room.  Eloise ! 

[She   points   imperiously   to   the 
window.     ELOISE  goes  to  it  slow- 
[14] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ly  and  for  a  moment  makes  a 
scornful  pretense  of  being  on 
watch  there;  but  as  soon  as 
Madame  DE  LASEYNE  has  left 
the  room  she  turns,  leaning  against 
the  wall  and  regarding  Louis 
with  languid  amusement.  He 
continues  to  struggle  with  his 
ill-omened  "permit,"  but,  by  and 
by,  becoming  aware  of  her  gaze, 
glances  consciously  over  his  shoul 
der  and  meets  her  half-veiled 
eyes.  Coloring,  he  looks  away, 
stares  dreamily  at  nothing,  sighs, 
and  finally  writes  again,  absently, 
like  a  man  under  a  spell,  which, 
indeed,  he  is.  The  pen  drops 
from  his  hand  with  a  faint  click 
upon  the  floor.  He  makes  the 
movement  of  a  person  suddenly 
wakened,  and,  holding  his  last 
writing  near  one  of  the  candles, 
examines  it  critically.  Then  he 
breaks  into  low,  bitter  laughter.] 
ELOISE  [unwillingly  curious].  You  find  some 
thing  amusing? 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis.  Myself.  One  of  my  mistakes,  that 
is  all. 

ELOISE  [indifferently].  Your  mirth  must  be 
indefatigable  if  you  can  still  laugh  at  those. 

Louis.  I  agree.     I  am  a  history  of  error. 

ELOISE.  You  should  have  made  it  a  vocation ; 
it  is  your  one  genius.  And  yet — truly  because 
I  am  a  fool  I  think,  as  Anne  says — I  let  you 
hector  me  into  a  sillier  mistake  than  any  of 
yours. 

Louis.  When? 

ELOISE  [flinging  out  her  arms].  Oh,  when  I 
consented  to  this  absurd  journey,  this  tiresome 
journey — with  you!  An  "escape"?  From 
nothing.  In  "disguise."  Which  doesn't  dis 
guise. 

Louis  [his  voice  taut  with  the  effort  for  self- 
command].  My  sister  asked  me  to  be  patient 
with  you,  Eloise — 

ELOISE.  Because  I  am  a  fool,  yes.  Thanks. 
[Shrewishly.]  And  then,  my  worthy  young  man  ? 
[He  rises  abruptly,  smarting  al 
most  beyond  endurance.] 

Louis  [breathing  deeply].  Have  I  not  been 
patient  with  you? 

ELOISE  [with  a  flash  of  energy].  If  I  have 
[16] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

asked  you  to  be  anything  whatever — with  me! 
— pray  recall  the  petition  to  my  memory. 

Louis  [beginning  to  let  himself  go].  Patient! 
Have  I  ever  been  anything  but  patient  with  you  ? 
Was  I  not  patient  with  you  five  years  ago  when 
you  first  harangued  us  on  your  "Rights  of 
Man"  and  your  monstrous  republicanism? 
Where  you  got  hold  of  it  all  I  don't  know — 

ELOISE  [kindling].  Ideas,  my  friend.  Nat 
urally,  incomprehensible  to  you.  Books! 
Brains !  Men ! 

Louis.  "Books!  Brains!  Men!"  Treason, 
poison,  and  mobs!  Oh,  I  could  laugh  at  you 
then :  they  were  only  beginning  to  kill  us,  and 
I  was  patient.  Was  I  not  patient  with  you  when 
these  Republicans  of  yours  drove  us  from  our 
homes,  from  our  country,  stole  all  we  had, 
assassinated  us  in  dozens,  in  hundreds,  mur 
dered  our  King? 

[He  walks  the  floor,  gesticulating 
nervously.] 

When  I  saw  relative  after  relative  of  my  own — 
aye,  and  of  yours,  too — dragged  to  the  abattoir 
— even  poor,  harmless,  kind  Andre  de  Laseyne, 
whom  they  took  simply  because  he  was  my 
brother-in-law — was  I  not  patient?  And  when 
[17] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

I  came  back  to  Paris  for  you  and  Anne,  and  had 
to  lie  hid  in  a  stable,  every  hour  in  greater 
danger  because  you  would  not  be  persuaded  to 
join  us,  was  I  not  patient?  And  when  you 
finally  did  consent,  but  protested  every  step 
of  the  way,  pouting  and — 

ELOISE  [stung].  " Pouting  !"j 

Louis.  And  when  that  stranger  came  post 
ing  after  us  so  obvious  a  spy — 

ELOISE   [scornfully].  Pooh!     He  is  nothing. 

Louis.  Is  there  a  league  between  here  and 
Paris  over  which  he  has  not  dogged  us?  By 
diligence,  on  horseback,  on  foot,  turning  up  at 
every  posting-house,  every  roadside  inn,  the 
while  you  laughed  at  me  because  I  read  death 
in  his  face !  These  two  days  we  have  been  here, 
is  there  an  hour  when  you  could  look  from  that 
window  except  to  see  him  grinning  up  from  the 
wine-shop  door  down  there? 

ELOISE  [impatiently,  but  with  a  somewhat 
conscious  expression],  I  tell  you  not  to 
fear  him.  There  is  nothing  in  it. 

Louis  [looking  at  her  keenly].  Be  sure  I 
understand  why  you  do  not  think  him  a  spy! 
You  believe  he  has  followed  us  because  you — 

ELOISE.  I  expected  that!  Oh,  I  knew  it 
[18] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE  JACOBIN 

would  come!  [Furiously.]  I  never  saw  the 
man  before  in  my  life! 

Louis  [pacing  the  floor].  He  is  unmistakable; 
his  trade  is  stamped  on  him;  a  hired  trailer  of 
your  precious  "Nation's." 

ELOISE  [haughtily].  The  Nation  is  the  People. 
You  malign  because  you  fear.  The  People 
is  sacred! 

Louis  [with  increasing  bitterness].  Aren  t 
you  tired  yet  of  the  Palais  Royal  platitudes? 
I  have  been  patient  with  your  Mericourtisms 
for  so  long.  Yes,  always  I  was  patient.  Al 
ways  there  was  time;  there  was  danger,  but 
there  was  a  little  time. 

[He  faces  her,  his  voice  becoming 
louder,  his  gestures  more  vehe 
ment.] 

But  now  the  Jeune  Pierrette  sails  this  hour,  and 
if  we  are  not  out  of  here  and  on  her  deck  when 
she  leaves  the  quay,  my  head  rolls  in  Samson's 
basket  within  the  week,  with  Anne's  and  your 
own  to  follow!  Now,  I  tell  you,  there  is  no 
more  time,  and  now — 

ELOISE  [suavely].  Yes?    Well?    "Now?" 

[He    checks    himself;    his    lifted 
hand  falls  to  his  side.] 
[19] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis  [in  a  gentle  voice].  I  am  still  patient. 
[He  looks  into  her  eyes,   makes 
her  a  low  and  formal  obeisance, 
and  drops  dejectedly  into  the  chair 
at  the  desk.] 

ELOISE  [dangerously].  Is  the  oration  concluded? 
Louis.  Quite. 

ELOISE  [suddenly  volcanic].  Then  "now" 
you'll  perhaps  be  "patient"  enough  to  explain 
why  I  shouldn't  leave  you  instantly.  Under 
stand  fully  that  I  have  come  thus  far  with  you 
and  Anne  solely  to  protect  you  in  case  you  were 
suspected.  "Now,"  my  little  man,  you  are 
safe :  you  have  only  to  go  on  board  your  vessel. 
Why  should  I  go  with  you?  Why  do  you 
insist  on  dragging  me  out  of  the  country? 

Louis  [wearily].  Only  to  save  your  life;  that 
is  all. 

ELOISE.  My  life !  Tut !  My  life  is  safe  with 
the  People — my  People! 

[She  draws   herself   up   magnifi 
cently.] 

The  Nation  would  protect  me!    I  gave  the 
people  my  whole  fortune  when  they  were  starv 
ing.     After  that,   who  in  France  dare  lay  a 
finger  upon  the  Citizeness  Eloise  d'Anville ! 
[20] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis.  I  have  the  idea  sometimes,  my 
cousin,  that  perhaps  if  you  had  not  given  them 
your  property  they  would  have  taken  it, 
anyway.  [Dryly.]  They  did  mine. 

ELOISE  [agitated].  I  do  not  expect  you  to 
comprehend  what  I  felt — what  I  feel! 

[She  lifts  her  arms  longingly.] 
Oh,  for  a  Man! — a  Man  who  could  understand 
me! 

Louis   [sadly].  That  excludes  me! 

ELOISE.  Shall  I  spell  it? 

Louis.  You  are  right.  So  far  from  under 
standing  you,  I  understand  nothing.  The  age 
is  too  modern  for  me.  I  do  not  understand  why 
this  rabble  is  permitted  to  rule  France;  I  do 
not  even  understand  why  it  is  permitted  to 
live. 

ELOISE  [with  superiority].  Because  you  be 
long  to  the  class  that  thought  itself  made  of 
porcelain  and  the  rest  of  the  world  clay.  It  is 
simple:  the  mud-ball  breaks  the  vase. 

Louis.  You  belong  to  the  same  class,  even 
to  the  same  family. 

ELOISE.  You  are  wrong.  One  circumstance 
proves  me  no  aristocrat. 

Louis.  What  circumstance? 


BEAUTY   AND  THE   JACOBIN 

ELOISE.  That  I  happened  to  be  born  with 
brains.  I  can  account  for  it  only  by  supposing 
some  hushed-up  ancestral  scandal.  [Brusquely.] 
Do  you  understand  that? 

Louis.  I  overlook  it. 

[He  writes  again.] 

ELOISE.  Quibbling  was  always  a  habit  of 
yours.  [Snapping  at  him  irritably.]  Oh,  stop 
that  writing!  You  can't  do  it,  and  you  don't 
need  it.  You  blame  the  people  because  they 
turn  on  you  now,  after  you've  whipped  and 
beaten  and  ground  them  underfoot  for  cen 
turies  and  centuries  and — 

Louis.  Quite  a  career  for  a  man  of  twenty- 
nine! 

ELOISE.  I  have  said  that  quibbling  was — 

Louis  [despondently].  Perhaps  it  is.  To 
return  to  my  other  deficiencies,  I  do  not  un 
derstand  why  this  spy  who  followed  us  from 
Paris  has  not  arrested  me  long  before  now. 
I  do  not  understand  why  you  hate  me.  I  do 
not  understand  the  world  in  general.  And  in 
particular  I  do  not  understand  the  art  of 
forgery ! 

[He  throws  down  his  pen.] 

ELOISE.  You  talk  of  "patience  " !    How  often 


"[    1)0    NOT    I  NDKKSTAM)' 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

have  I  explained  that  you  would  not  need  pass 
ports  of  any  kind  if  you  would  let  me  throw  off 
my  incognito.  If  any  one  questions  you,  it 
will  be  sufficient  if  I  give  my  name.  All 
France  knows  the  Citizeness  Eloise  d'Anville. 
Do  you  suppose  the  officer  on  the  quay  would 
dare  oppose — 

Louis  [with  a  gesture  of  resignation].  I  know 
you  think  it. 

ELOISE  [angrily].  You  tempt  me  not  to  prove 
it.  But  for  Anne's  sake — 

Louis.  Not  for  mine.  That,  at  least,  I 
understand.  [He  rises.]  My  dear  cousin,  I 
am  going  to  be  very  serious — 

ELOISE.  O  heaven! 

[She  flings  away  from  him.] 

Louis  [plaintively].  I  shall  not  make  another 
oration — 

ELOISE.  Make  anything  you  choose.  [Drum 
ming  the  floor  with  her  foot.]  What  does  it 
matter? 

Louis.  I  have  a  presentiment — I  ask  you  to 
listen — 

ELOISE  [in  her  irritation  almost  screaming]. 
How  can  I  help  but  listen?    And  Anne,  too! 
[With  a  short  laugh.]     You  know  as  well  as  I 
[23] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

do  that  when  that  door  is  open  everything  you 
say  in  this  room  is  heard  in  there. 

[She  points  to  the  open  doorway, 
where  MADAME  DE  LASEYNE  in 
stantly    makes    her    appearance, 
and   after   exchanging  one  fiery 
glance    with    ELOISE    as    swiftly 
withdraws,  closing  the  door  be 
hind  her  with  outraged  emphasis.] 
ELOISE    [breaking   into   a   laugh].  Forward, 
soldiers ! 

Louis  [reprovingly].  Eloise! 
ELOISE.  Well,  open  the  door,  then,  if  you 
want  her  to  hear  you  make  love  to  me !   [Coolly.] 
That's  what  you're  going  to  do, isn't  it? 

Louis  [with  imperfect  self-control].  I  wish 
to  ask  you  for  the  last  time — 

ELOISE  [flouting].  There  are  so  many  last 
times ! 

Louis.  To  ask  you  if  you  are  sure  that  you 
know  your  own  heart.  You  cared  for  me  once, 
and — 

ELOISE  [as  if  this  were  news  indeed].  I  did? 
Who  under  heaven  ever  told  you  that? 

Louis    [flushing].  You   allowed    yourself    to 
be  betrothed  to  me,  I  believe. 
[24] 


BEAUTY    AND   THE    JACOBIN 

ELOISE.  "Allowed"  is  the  word,  precisely. 
I  seem  to  recall  changing  all  that  the  very  day 
I  became  an  orphan — and  my  own  master! 
[Satirically  polite.]  Pray  correct  me  if  my 
memory  errs.  How  long  ago  was  it?  Six 
years?  Seven? 

Louis  [with  emotion].  Eloise,  Eloise,  you  did 
love  me  then!  We  were  happy,  both  of  us, 
so  very  happy — 

ELOISE  [sourly].  "Both!"  My  faith!  But 
I  must  have  been  a  brave  little  actress. 

Louis.  I  do~not  believe  it.  You  loved  me.  I — 
[He  hesitates.] 

ELOISE.  Do  get  on  with  what  you  have  to 
say. 

Louis  [in  a  low  voice].  I  have  many  fore 
bodings,    Eloise,    but   the   strongest — and   for 
me  the  saddest — is  that  this  is  the  last  chance 
you  will  ever  have  to  tell — to  tell  me — 
[He  falters  again.] 

ELOISE  [irritated  beyond  measure,  shouting]. 
To  tell  you  what? 

Louis  [swallowing].  That  your  love  for  me 
still  lingers. 

ELOISE    [promptly].    Well,   it   doesn't.      So 
that's  over! 
3  [25] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis.  Not  quite  yet.     I — 

ELOISE  [dropping  into  a  chair].  0  Death! 

Louis  [still  gently].  Listen.  I  have  hope  that 
you  and  Anne  may  be  permitted  to  escape; 
but  as  for  me,  since  the  first  moment  I  felt  the 
eyes  of  that  spy  from  Paris  upon  me  I  have 
had  the  premonition  that  I  would  be  taken 
back — to  the  guillotine,  Eloise.  I  am  sure  that 
he  will  arrest  me  when  I  attempt  to  leave  this 
place  to-night.  [With  sorrowful  earnestness.] 
And  it  is  with  the  certainty  in  my  soul  that 
this  is  our  last  hour  together  that  I  ask  you  if 
you  cannot  tell  me  that  the  old  love  has  come 
back.  Is  there  nothing  in  your  heart  for  me? 

ELOISE.  Was  there  anything  in  your  heart  for 
the  beggar  who  stood  at  your  door  in  the  old 
days? 

Louis.  Is  there  nothing  for  him  who  stands 
at  yours  now,  begging  for  a  word? 

ELOISE  [frowning].  I  remember  you  had  the 
name  of  a  disciplinarian  in  your  regiment. 

[She  rises  to  face  him.] 

Did  you  ever  find  anything  in  your  heart  for 
the  soldiers  you  ordered  tied  up  and  flogged? 
Was  there  anything  in  your  heart  for  the  pea 
sants  who  starved  in  your  fields? 
[26] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Louis  [quietly].  No;  it  was  too  full  of  you. 

ELOISE.  Words!  Pretty  little  words! 

Louis.  Thoughts.     Pretty,  because  they  are 

of  you.     All,  always  of  you — always,  my  dear. 

I  never  really  think  of  anything  but  you.     The 

picture  of  you  is  always  before  the  eyes  of  my 

soul;  the  very  name  of  you  is  forever  in  my 

heart.     [With  a  rueful  smile.]     And  it  is  on  the 

tips  of  my  fingers,  sometimes  when  it  shouldn't 

be.    See. 

[He  steps  to  the  desk  and  shows 
her  a  scribbled  sheet.] 

This  is  what  I  laughed  at  a  while  ago.  I  tried 
to  write,  with  you  near  me,  and  unconsciously 
I  let  your  name  creep  into  my  very  forgery !  I 
wrote  it  as  I  wrote  it  in  the  sand  when  we 
were  children;  as  I  have  traced  it  a  thousand 
times  on  coated  mirrors — on  frosted  windows. 

[He  reads  the  writing  aloud.] 
"Permit  the  Citizen  Balsage  and  his  sister,  the 
Citizeness  Virginie  Belsage,  and  his  second 
sister,  the  Citizeness  Marie  Balsage,  and  Eloise 
d'Anville" — so  I  wrote! — "to  embark  upon  the 
vessel  Jeune  Pierrette — "  You  see? 

[He  lets  the  paper  fall  upon  the 
desk.] 

[27] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Even  in  this  danger,  that  I  feel  closer  and 
closer  with  every  passing  second,  your  name 
came  in  of  itself.  I  am  like  that  English  Mary : 
if  they  will  open  my  heart  when  I  am  dead, 
they  shall  find ,  not  "  Calais, "  but  "  Eloise ' ' ! 

ELOISE  [going  to  the  dressing-table].  Louis, 
that  doesn't  interest  me. 

[She  adds  a  delicate  touch  or  two 
to  her  hair,  studying  it  thought 
fully  in  the  dressing-table  mirror.] 

Louis  [somberly].  I  told  you  long  ago — 

ELOISE  [smiling  at  her  reflection].  So  you 
did — often ! 

Louis  [breathing  quickly].  I  have  nothing 
new  to  offer.  I  understand.  I  bore  you. 

ELOISE.  Louis,  to  be  frank:  I  don't  care  what 
they  find  in  your  heart  when  they  open  it. 

Louis  [with  a  hint  of  sternness].  Have  you 
never  reflected  that  there  might  be  something 
for  me  to  forgive  you? 

ELOISE  [glancing  at  him  over  her  shoulder 
in  frowning  surprise].  What! 

Louis.  I  wonder  sometimes  if  you  have  ever 
found  a  flaw  in  your  own  character. 

ELOISE  [astounded].  So! 

[Turning  sharply  upon  him.] 
[28] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

You  are  assuming  the  right  to  criticize  me, 
are  you?    Oho! 

Louis  [agitated].  I  state  merely — I  have  said 
— I  think  I  forgive  you  a  great  deal — 

ELOISE  [beginning  to  char].  You  do!  You 
bestow  your  gracious  pardon  upon  me,  do  you? 
[Bursting  into  flame.]  Keep  your  forgiveness 
to  yourself!  When  I  want  it  I'll  kneel  at  your 
feet  and  beg  it  of  you !  You  can  kiss  me  then, 
for  then  you  will  know  that  "the  old  love  has 
come  back"! 

Louis  [miserably].  When  you  kneel — 
ELOISE.  Can  you  picture  it — Marquis? 

[She  hurls  his  title  at  him,  and 
draws  herself  up  in  icy  splendor.] 
I  am  a  woman  of  the  Republic! 

Louis.  And  the  Republic  has  no  need  of 
love. 

ELOISE.  Its  daughter  has  no  need  of  yours! 
Louis.  Until  you  kneel  to  me.    You  have 
spoken.     It  is  ended. 

[Turning  from  her  with  a  pathetic 
gesture  of  farewell  and  resigna 
tion,  his  attention  is  suddenly 
arrested  by  something  invisible. 
He  stands  for  a  moment  trans- 
[29] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

fixed.  When  he  speaks,  it  is  in 
an  altered  tone,  light  and  at  the 
same  time  ominous.] 

My  cousin,  suffer  the  final  petition  of  a  bore. 
Forgive  my  seriousness;  forgive  my  stupidity, 
for  I  believe  that  what  one  hears  now  means 
that  a  number  of  things  are  indeed  ended. 
Myself  among  them. 

ELOISE    [not    comprehending].  "What    one 
hears?" 

Louis  [slowly].  In  the  distance. 

[Both  stand  motionless  to  listen, 
and  the  room  is  silent.    Gradually 
a  muffled,  multitudinous  sound,  at 
first  very  faint,  becomes  audible.] 
ELOISE.  What  is  it? 

Louis  [with  pale  composure].  Only  a  song! 
[The  distant  sound  becomes  dis 
tinguishable  as  a  singing  from 
many  unmusical  throats  and 
pitched  in  every  key,  a  drum-beat 
booming  underneath;  a  tumul 
tuous  rumble  which  grows  slowly 
louder.  The  door  of  the  inner 
room  opens,  and  MADAME  DE 
LASEYNE  enters.] 
[30] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ANNE  [briskly,  as  she  comes  in].  I  have  hid 
den  the  cloak  and  the  dress  beneath  the  mat 
tress.  Have  you — 

Louis  [lifting  his  hand].  Listen! 

[She  halts,  startled.  The  sing 
ing,  the  drums,  and  the  tumult 
swell  suddenly  much  louder,  as 
if  the  noise-makers  had  turned 
a  corner.] 

ANNE  [crying  out].     The  "Marseillaise"! 
Louis.  The  "Vultures'  Chorus"! 
ELOISE  [in  a  ringing  voice].  The  Hymn  of 
Liberty ! 

ANNE  [trembling  violently].  It  grows  louder. 
Louis.  Nearer! 

ELOISE  [running  to  the  window].  They  are 
coming  this  way! 

ANNE  [rushing  ahead  of  her].  They  have  turned 
the  corner  of  the  street.  Keep  back,  Louis ! 

ELOISE  [leaning  out  of  the  window,  enthusias 
tically].  Vive  la — 

[She  finishes  with  an  indignant 
gurgle  as  ANNE  DE  LASEYNE,  with 
out  comment,  claps  a  prompt 
hand  over  her  mouth  and  pushes 
her  vigorously  from  the  window.] 
[31] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ANNE.  A  mob — carrying  torches  and  danc 
ing.  [Her  voice  shaking  wildly.]  They  are  fol 
lowing  a  troop  of  soldiers. 

Louis.  The  National  Guard. 

ANNE.  Keep  back  from  the  window !  A  man 
in  a  tricolor  scarf  marching  in  front. 

Louis.  A  political,  then — an  official  of  their 
government. 

ANNE.  O  Virgin,  have  mercy! 

[She  turns  a  stricken  face  upon 
her  brother.] 
It  is  that — 

Louis  [biting  his  nails].  Of  course.  Our 
spy. 

[He  takes  a  hesitating  step  toward 
the  desk;  but  swings  about,  goes 
to  the  door  at  the  rear,  shoots 
the  bolt  back  and  forth,  ap 
parently  unable  to  decide  upon 
a  course  of  action;  finally  leaves 
the  door  bolted  and  examines  the 
hinges.  ANNE,  meanwhile,  has 
hurried  to  the  desk,  and,  seizing 
a  candle  there,  begins  to  light 
others  in  a  candelabrum  on  the 
dressing-table.  The  noise  out- 
[32] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

side    grows    to    an    uproar;    the 
"Marseillaise"    changes    to    "Qa 
ira  " ;  and  a  shaft  of  the  glare  from 
the  torches  below  shoots  through 
the  window  and  becomes  a  stag 
gering  red  patch  on  the  ceiling.] 
ANNE  [feverishly].  Lights!    Light  those  can 
dles  in  the  sconce,  Eloise !    Light  all  the  candles 
we  have. 

[ELOISE,  resentful,  does  not  move.] 
Louis.  No,  no!    Put  them  out! 
ANNE.  Oh,  fatal! 

[She  stops  him  as  he  rushes  to 
obey  his  own  command.] 

If  our  window  is  lighted  he  will  believe  we  have 
no  thought  of  leaving,  and  pass  by. 

[She   hastily    lights    the    candles 
in  a  sconce  upon  the  wall  as  she 
speaks;  the  shabby  place  is  now 
brightly  illuminated.] 
Louis.  He  will  not  pass  by. 

[The  external  tumult  culminates 
in  riotous  yelling,  as,  with  a 
final  roll,  the  drums  cease  to 
beat.  MADAME  DE  LASEYNE  runs 
again  to  the  window.] 
[33] 


BEAUTY   AND  THE  JACOBIN 

ELOISE  [sullenly].  You  are  disturbing  your 
selves  without  reason.     They  will  not  stop  here. 
ANNE  [in  a  sickly  whisper] .  They  have  stopped. 
Louis.  At  the  door  of  this  house? 

[MADAME  DE  LASEYNE,  leaning 
against  the  wall,  is  unable  to 
reply,  save  by  a  gesture.  The 
noise  from  the  street  dwindles  to 
a  confused,  expectant  murmur. 
Louis  takes  a  pistol  from  beneath 
his  blouse,  strides  to  the  door, 
and  listens.] 

ANNE  [faintly].  He  is  in  the  house.  The 
soldiers  followed  him. 

Louis.  They  are  on  the  lower  stairs.  [He 
turns  to  the  two  women  humbly.]  My  sister 
and  my  cousin,  my  poor  plans  have  only  made 
everything  worse  for  you.  I  cannot  ask  you 
to  forgive  me.  We  are  caught. 

ANNE  [vitalized  with  the  energy  of  despera 
tion].  Not  till  the  very  last  shred  of  hope  is 
gone! 

[She  springs  to  the  desk  and  be 
gins  to  tear  the  discarded  sheets 
into  minute  fragments.] 
Is  that  door  fastened? 

[34] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

Louis.  They'll  break  it  down,  of  course. 
ANNE.  Where  is  our  passport  from  Paris? 
Louis.  Here. 

[He  gives  it  to  her.] 

ANNE.  Quick!     Which  of  these  "permits" 
is  the  best? 

Louis.  They're  all  hopeless — 

[He  fumbles  among  the  sheets  on 
the  desk.] 

ANNE.  Any  of  them.  We  can't  stop  to 
select. 

[She  thrusts  the  passport  and  a 

haphazard   sheet   from   the   desk 

into    the    bosom    of    her    dress. 

An   orderly    tramping   of   heavy 

shoes    and   a   clinking    of   metal 

become    audible   as   the   soldiers 

ascend  the  upper  flight  of  stairs.] 

ELOISE.     All   this  is   childish.     [Haughtily.] 

I  shall  merely  announce — 

ANNE  [uttering  a  half -choked  scream  of  rage]. 
You'll  announce  nothing!  Out  of  here,  both 
of  you! 

Louis.  No,  no! 

ANNE  [with  breathless  rapidity,  as  the  noise 
on  the  stairs  grows  louder].  Let  them  break  the 
[35] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

door  in  if  they  will;  only  let  them  find  me 

alone. 

[She  seizes  her  brother's  arm  im 
ploringly  as  he  pauses,  uncer 
tain.] 

Give  me  the  chance  to  make  them  think  I  am 

here  alone. 

Louis.  I  can't — 

ANNE  [urging  him  to  the  inner  door].  Is  there 

any   other   possible   hope    for    us?     Is    there 

any  other  possible  way  to  gain  even  a  little 

time  ?     Louis,  I  want  your  word  of  honor  not  to 

leave  that  room  unless  I  summon  you.     I  must 

have  it! 

[Overborne  by  her  intensity,  Louis 
nods  despairingly,  allowing  her 
to  force  him  toward  the  other 
room.  The  tramping  of  the  sol 
diers,  much  louder  and  very  close, 
comes  to  a  sudden  stop.  There 
is  a  sharp  word  of  command,  and 
a  dozen  muskets  ring  on  the 
floor  just  beyond  the  outer  door.] 
ELOISE  [folding  her  arms].  You  needn't  think 

I  shall  consent  to  hide  myself.     I  shall  tell 

them — 

[36] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

ANNE  [in  a  surcharged  whisper].  You  will 
not  ruin  us!  [With  furious  determination,  as 
a  loud  knock  falls  upon  the  door.]  In  there,  I 
tell  you ! 

[Almost    physically    she    sweeps 
both  ELOISE  and  Louis  out  of 
the  room,   closes  the  door  upon 
them,  and  leans  against  it,  pant 
ing.     The  knocking  is  repeated. 
She  braces  herself  to  speak.] 
ANNE  [with  a  catch  in  her  throat].  Who  is — 
there  ? 

A  SONOROUS  VOICE.  French  Republic ! 
ANNE  [faltering].  It  is — it  is  difficult  to  hear. 
What  do  you — 

THE  VOICE.  Open  the  door. 
ANNE  [more  firmly].  That  is  impossible. 
THE  VOICE.  Open  the  door. 
ANNE.  What  is  your  name? 
THE  VOICE.  Valsin,  National  Agent. 
ANNE.  I  do  not  know  you. 
THE  VOICE.  Open! 

ANNE.  I  am  here  alone.  I  am  dressing.  I 
can  admit  no  one. 

THE  VOICE.  For  the  last  time:  open! 
ANNE.  No! 

[37] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

THE  VOICE.  Break  it  down. 

[A  thunder  of  blows  from  the 
butts  of  muskets  falls  upon  the 
door.] 

ANNE  [rushing  toward  it  in  a  passion  of  pro 
test].  No,  no,  no!  You  shall  not  come  in! 
I  tell  you  I  have  not  finished  dressing.  If  you 
are  men  of  honor —  Ah! 

[She  recoils,  gasping,  as  a  panel 
breaks  in,  the  stock  of  a  musket 
following  it;  and  then,  weakened 
at  rusty  bolt  and  crazy  hinge,  the 
whole  door  gives  way  and  falls 
crashing  into  the  room.  The  nar 
row  passage  thus  revealed  is 
crowded  with  shabbily  uniformed 
soldiers  of  the  National  Guard, 
under  an  officer  armed  with  a 
saber.  As  the  door  falls  a  man 
wearing  a  tricolor  scarf  strides  by 
them,  and,  standing  beneath  the 
dismantled  lintel,  his  hands  be 
hind  him,  sweeps  the  room  with 
a  smiling  eye. 

This    personage    is    handsomely, 
almost    dandiacally    dressed    in 
[38] 


VAI.SIN 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

black;  his  ruffle  is  of  lace,  his 
stockings  are  of  silk;  the  lapels 
of  his  waistcoat,  overlapping  those 
of  his  long  coat,  exhibit  a  rich 
embroidery  of  white  and  crimson. 
These  and  other  details  of  ele 
gance,  such  as  his  wearing  powder 
upon  his  dark  hair,  indicate  either 
insane  daring  or  an  importance 
quite  overwhelming.  A  certain 
easy  power  in  his  unusually  bril 
liant  eyes  favors  the  probability 
that,  like  Robespierre,  he  can 
wear  what  he  pleases.  Unde 
niably  he  has  distinction.  Equally 
undeniable  is  something  in  his 
air  that  is  dapper  and  impish 
and  lurking. 

His  first  glance  over  the  room  ap 
parently  affording  him  acute  sat 
isfaction,  he  steps  lightly  across 
the  prostrate  door,  MADAME  DE 
LASEYNE  retreating  before  him 
but  keeping  herself  between  him 
and  the  inner  door.  He  comes  to 
an  unexpected  halt  in  a  dancing- 
[39] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

master's  posture,  removing  his 
huge  hat — which  displays  a  tri 
color  plume  of  ostrich  feathers — 
with  a  wide  flourish,  an  inten 
tional  burlesque  of  the  old-court 
manner. 

VALSIN.  Permit  me.  [He  bows  elaborately.] 
Be  gracious  to  a  recent  fellow-traveler.  I  in 
troduce  myself.  At  your  service :  Valsin,  Agent 
of  the  National  Committee  of  Public  Safety. 

[He  faces  about  sharply.] 
Soldiers ! 

[They  stand  at  attention.] 
To  the  street  door.  I  will  conduct  the  examina 
tion  alone.  My  assistant  will  wait  on  this 
floor,  at  the  top  of  the  stair.  Send  the  people 
away  down  below  there,  officer.  Look  to  the 
courtyard.  Clear  the  streets. 

[The  officer  salutes,  gives  a  word 
of  command,  and  the  soldiers 
shoulder  their  muskets,  march 
off,  and  are  heard  clanking  down 
the  stairs.  VALSIN  tosses  his  hat 
upon  the  desk,  and  turns  smiling 
ly  to  the  trembling  but  determined 
MADAME  DE  LASEYNE.] 
[40] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

ANNE  [summoning  her  indignation].  How 
dare  you  break  down  my  door!  How  dare  you 
force  your — 

VALSIN  [suavely].  My  compliments  on  the 
celerity  with  which  the  citizeness  has  com 
pleted  her  toilet.  Marvelous!  An  example  to 
her  sex. 

ANNE.  You  intend  robbery,  I  suppose. 

VALSIN  [with  a  curt  laugh].  Not  precisely. 

ANNE.  What,  then? 

VALSIN.  I  have  come  principally  for  the 
returned  Emigrant,  Louis  Valny-Cherault,  form 
erly  called  Marquis  de  Valny-Cherault,  form 
erly  of  the  former  regiment  of  Valny;  also 
formerly — 

ANNE  [cutting  him  off  sharply].  I  do  not  know 
what  you  mean  by  all  these  names — and 
"formerlies"! 

VALSIN.  No?  [Persuasively.]  Citizeness, 
pray  assert  that  I  did  not  encounter  you  last 
week  on  your  journey  from  Paris — 

ANNE  [hastily].  It  is  true  I  have  been  to 
Paris  on  business;  you  may  have  seen  me — 
I  do  not  know.  Is  it  a  crime  to  return  from 
Paris? 

VALSIN  [in  a  tone  of  mock  encourage- 
4  [  41  ] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE   JACOBIN 

ment].  It  will  amuse  me  to  hear  you  declare 
that  I  did  not  see  you  traveling  in  company 
with  Louis  Valny-Cherault.  Come !  Say  it. 

ANNE  [stepping  back  defensively,  closer  to 
the  inner  door].  I  am  alone,  I  tell  you!  I  do 
not  know  what  you  mean.  If  you  saw  me 
speaking  with  people  in  the  diligence,  or  at 
some  posting-house,  they  were  only  traveling 
acquaintances.  I  did  not  know  them.  I  am 
a  widow — 

VALSIN.  My  condolences.     Poor,  of  course? 

ANNE.  Yes. 

VALSIN.  And  lonely,  of  course?  [Apologeti 
cally.]  Loneliness  is  in  the  formula :  I  suggest 
it  for  fear  you  might  forget. 

ANNE  [doggedly].  I  am  alone. 

VALSIN.  Quite  right. 

ANNE  [confusedly].  I  am  a  widow,  I  tell  you 
— a  widow,  living  here  quietly  with — 

VALSIN  [taking  her  up  quickly].  Ah — 
"with"!  Living  here  alone,  and  also  "with" 
— whom?  Not  your  late  husband? 

ANNE  [desperately].  With  my  niece. 

VALSIN  [affecting  great  surprise].  Ah!  A 
niece !  And  the  niece,  I  take  it,  is  in  your  other 
room  yonder? 

[42] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ANNE  [huskily].  Yes. 

VALSIN  [taking  a  step  forward].  Is  she  pretty? 
[ANNE  places  her  back  against 
the  closed  door,  facing  him  grim 
ly.  He  assumes  a  tone  of  in 
dulgence.] 

Ah,  one  must  not  look:  the  niece,  likewise,  has 
not  completed  her  toilet. 
ANNE.  She  is — asleep. 

VALSIN    [glancing    toward    the    dismantled 
doorway].  A  sound  napper!     Why  did  you  not 
say  instead  that  she  was — shaving? 
[He  advances,  smiling.] 

ANNE  [between  her  teeth].  You  shall  not  go 
in!  You  cannot  see  her!  She  is — 

VALSIN  [laughing].  Allow  me  to  prompt  you. 
She  is  not  only  asleep ;  she  is  ill.  She  is  starving. 
Also,  I  cannot  go  in  because  she  is  an  orphan. 
Surely,  she  is  an  orphan?  A  lonely  widow  and 
her  lonely  orphan  niece.  Ah,  touching — and 
sweet ! 

ANNE  [hotly].  What  authority  have  you  to 
force  your  way  into  my  apartment  and  in 
sult — 

VALSIN  [touching  his  scarf].  I  had  the  honor 
to  mention  the  French  Republic. 
[43] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ANNE.  So!  Does  the  French  Republic  per 
secute  widows  and  orphans? 

VALSIN  [gravely].  No.  It  is  the  making  of 
them! 

ANNE  [crying  out].  Ah,  horrible! 

VALSIN.  I  regret  that  its  just  severity  was 
the  cause  of  your  own  bereavement,  citizeness. 
When  your  unfortunate  husband,  Andre,  for 
merly  known  as  the  Prince  de  Laseyne — 

ANNE  [defiantly,  though  tears  have  sprung 
to  her  eyes].  I  tell  you  I  do  not  know  what 
you  mean  by  these  titles.  My  name  is  Bal- 
sage. 

VALSIN.  Bravo!  The  Widow  Balsage,  liv 
ing  here  in  calm  obscurity  with  her  niece. 
Widow  Balsage,  answer  quickly,  without  stop 
ping  to  think.  [Sharply.]  How  long  have  you 
lived  here  ? 

ANNE.  Two  months.     [Faltering.] — A  year! 

VALSIN  [laughing].  Good.  Two  months  and 
a  year!  No  visitors?  No  strangers? 

ANNE.  No. 

VALSIN  [wheeling  quickly  and  picking  up 
Louis's  cap  from  the  dressing-table].  This 
cap,  then,  belongs  to  your  niece. 

ANNE  [flustered,  advancing  toward  him  as 
[44] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

if  to  take  it].  It  was — it  was  left  here  this 
afternoon  by  our  landlord. 

VALSIN  [musingly].  That  is  very,  very  puz 
zling. 

[He  leans  against  the  dressing- 
table  in  a  careless  attitude,  his 
back  to  her.] 

ANNE  [cavalierly].  Why  "puzzling"? 
VALSIN.  Because  I  sent  him  on  an  errand 
to  Paris  this  morning. 

[She  flinches,  but  he  does  not  turn 
to  look  at  her,  continuing  in  a 
tone  of  idle  curiosity.] 

I  suppose  your  own  excursion  to  Paris  was  quite 
an  event  for  you,   Widow  Balsage.     You  do 
not  take  many  journeys? 
ANNE.  I   am   too   poor. 
VALSIN.  And  you  have  not  been   contem 
plating  another  departure  from  Boulogne? 
ANNE.  No. 

VALSIN  [still  in  the  same  careless  attitude, 
his  back  toward  her  and  the  closed  door]. 
Good.  It  is  as  I  thought:  the  portmanteau  is 
for  ornament. 

ANNE  [choking].  It  belongs  to  my  niece.    She 
came  only  an  hour  ago.     She  has  not  unpacked. 
[45] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

VALSIN.  Naturally.     Too  ill. 

ANNE.  She  had  traveled  all  night;  she  was 
exhausted.  She  went  to  sleep  at  once. 

VALSIN.  Is  she  a  somnambulist? 

ANNE  [taken  aback].  Why? 

VALSIN  [indifferently].  She  has  just  opened 
the  door  of  her  room  in  order  to  overhear  our 
conversation. 

[Waving  his  hand  to  the  dress 
ing-table  mirror,  in  which  he  had 
been   gazing.] 
Observe  it,  Citizeness  Laseyne. 

ANNE  [demoralized].  I  do  not — I —  [Stamp 
ing  her  foot.]  How  often  shall  I  tell  you  my 
name  is  Balsage ! 

VALSIN  [turning  to  her  apologetically].  My 
wretched  memory.  Perhaps  I  might  remember 
better  if  I  saw  it  written :  I  beg  a  glance  at  your 
papers.  Doubtless  you  have  your  certificate 
of  citizenship — 

ANNE  [trembling],  I  have  papers,  certainly. 

VALSIN.  The  sight  of  them — 

ANNE.  I  have  my  passport;  you  shall  see. 
[With  wildly  shaking  hands  she  takes  from  her 
blouse  the  passport  and  the  "permit,"  crumpled 
together.]     It  is  in  proper  form — 
[46] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

[She  is  nervously  replacing  the 
two  papers  in  her  bosom  when 
with  a  sudden  movement  he  takes 
them  from  her.  She  cries  out 
incoherently,  and  attempts  to 
recapture  them.] 

VALSIN  [extending  his  left  arm  to  fend  her 
off.]  Yes,  here  you  have  your  passport.  And 
there  you  have  others. 

[He  points  to  the  littered  floor 
under  the  desk.] 
Many  of  them! 
ANNE.  Old  letters! 

[She  clutches  at  the  papers  in  his 
grasp.] 

VALSIN  [easily  fending  her  off].  Doubtless! 
[He  shakes  the  "permit"  open.] 
Oho !    A  permission  to  embark — and  signed  by 
three  names  of  the  highest  celebrity.   Alas,  these 
unfortunate  statesmen,  Billaud  Varennes,  Car- 
not,  and  Robespierre !     Each  has  lately  suffered 
an  injury  to  his  right  hand.     What  a  misfortune 
for  France !    And  what  a  coincidence !     One  has 
not  heard  the  like  since  we  closed  the  theaters. 
ANNE    [furiously    struggling    to    reach    his 
hand].  Give  me  my  papers!     Give  me — 
[47] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

VALSIN  [holding  them  away  from  her].  You 
see,  these  unlucky  great  men  all  had  their  names 
signed  for  them  by  somebody  else.  And  I 
should  judge  that  this  somebody  else  must  have 
been  writing  quite  recently — less  than  half  an 
hour  ago,  from  the  freshness  of  the  ink — and 
in  considerable  haste;  perhaps  suffering  consid 
erable  anguish  of  mind,  Widow  Balsage! 

[MADAME  DE  LASEYNE,  over 
whelmed,  sinks  into  a  chair.  He 
comes  close  to  her,  his  manner 
changing  startlingly.] 

VALSIN  [bending  over  with  sudden  menace, 
his  voice  loud  and  harsh].  Widow  Balsage,  if  you 
intend  no  journey,  why  have  you  this  forged 
permission  to  embark  on  the  Jeune  Pierrette? 
Widow  Balsage,  who  is  the  Citizen  Balsage? 

ANNE  [faintly].  My  brother. 

VALSIN  [straightening  up].  Your  first  truth. 
[Resuming  his  gaiety.]  Of  course  he  is  not  in 
that  room  yonder  with  your  niece. 

ANNE  [brokenly].  No,  no,  no;  he  is  not! 
He  is  not  here. 

VALSIN  [commiseratingly].  Poor  woman!  You 
have  not  even  the  pleasure  to  perceive  how 
droll  you  are. 

[48] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ANNE.  I  perceive  that  I  am  a  fool! 

[She  dashes  the  tears   from  her 
eyes  and  springs  to  her  feet.] 
I  also  perceive  that  you  have  denounced  us 
before  the  authorities  here — 

VALSIN.  Pardon.  In  Boulogne  it  happens 
that  I  am  the  authority.  I  introduce  myself 
for  the  third  time :  Valsin,  Commissioner  of  the 
National  Committee  of  Public  Safety.  Tallien 
was  sent  to  Bordeaux;  Collot  to  Lyons;  I  to 
Boulogne.  Citizeness,  were  all  of  the  august 
names  on  your  permit  genuine,  you  could  no 
more  leave  this  port  without  my  counter- 
signature  than  you  could  take  wing  and  fly 
over  the  Channel! 

ANNE  [with  a  shrill  laugh  of  triumph].  You 
have  overreached  yourself!  You're  an  or 
dinary  spy:  you  followed  us  from  Paris — 

VALSIN  [gaily].  Oh,  I  intended  you  to  notice 
that! 

ANNE  [unheeding].  You  have  claimed  to 
be  Commissioner  of  the  highest  power  in 
France.  We  can  prove  that  you  are  a  common 
spy.  You  may  go  to  the  guillotine  for  that. 
Take  care,  Citizen !  So !  You  have  de 
nounced  us ;  we  denounce  you.  I'll  have 
[49] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

you  arrested  by  your  own  soldiers.     I'll  call 
them — 

[She  makes  a  feint  of  running 
to  the  window.  He  watches  her 
coolly,  in  silence;  and  she  halts, 
chagrined.] 

VALSIN  [pleasantly].  I  was  sure  you  would 
not  force  me  to  be  premature.  Remark  it, 
Citizeness  Laseyne:  I  am  enjoying  all  this. 
I  have  waited  a  long  time  for  it. 

ANNE  [becoming  hysterical].  I  am  the  Widow 
Balsage,  I  tell  you !  You  do  not  know  us — you 
followed  us  from  Paris.  [Half  sobbing.]  You're 
a  spy — a  hanger-on  of  the  police.  We  will 
prove — 

VALSIN  [stepping  to  the  dismantled  doorway]. 
I  left  my  assistant  within  hearing — a  species 
of  animal  of  mine.  I  may  claim  that  he  belongs 
to  me.  A  worthy  patriot,  but  skilful,  who  has 
had  the  honor  of  a  slight  acquaintance  with  you, 
I  believe.  [Calling.]  Dossonville! 

[Dossonville,  a  large  man,  flabby 
of  flesh,  loose-mouthed,  grizzled, 
carelessly  dressed,  makes  his  ap 
pearance  in  the  doorway.  He 
has  a  harsh  and  reckless  eye; 
[So] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

and,  obviously  a  flamboyant  bully 
by  temperament,  his  abject,  dog 
gish  deference  to  VALSIN  is  in 
stantly    impressive,     more    than 
confirming    the    latter's    remark 
that    Dossonville    "belongs"    to 
him.     Dossonville,  apparently,  is 
a  chattel  indeed,  body  and  soul. 
At    sight    of    him    Madame    de 
Laseyne  catches  at  the  desk  for 
support  and  stands  speechless.] 
VALSIN    [easily],  Dossonville,    you   may   in 
form  the  Citizeness  Laseyne  what  office  I  have 
the  fortune  to  hold. 

DOSSONVILLE    [coming   in].    Bright   heaven! 
All  the  world  knows  that  you  are  the  repre 
sentative  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety. 
Commissioner  to  Boulogne. 
VALSIN.  With  what  authority? 
DOSSONVILLE.   Absolute  —  unlimited!     Nat 
urally.     What  else  would  be  useful? 

VALSIN.  You  recall  this  woman,  Dossonville? 
DOSSONVILLE.  She  was  present  when  I  de 
livered  the  passport  to  the  Emigrant  Valny- 
Cherault,   in  Paris. 

VALSIN.  Did  you  forge  that  passport? 
[51] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

DOSSONVILLE.  No.  I  told  the  Emigrant  I 
had.  Under  orders.  [Grinning.]  It  was 
genuine. 

VALSIN.  Where  did  you  get  it? 

DOSSONVILLE.  From  you. 

VALSIN   [suavely].  Sit  down,   Dossonville. 

[The  latter,  who  is  standing  by 
a  chair,  obeys  with  a  promptness 
more  than  military.  VALSIN 
turns  smilingly  to  MADAME  DE 
LASEYNE.] 

Dossonville's  instructions,  however,  did  not 
include  a  "permit "  to  sail  on  the  Jeune  Pierrette. 
All  of  which,  I  confess,  Citizeness,  has  very  much 
the  appearance  of  a  trap! 

[He  tosses  the  two  papers  upon 
the  desk.  Utterly  dismayed,  she 
makes  no  effort  to  secure  them. 
He  regards  her  with  quizzical 
enjoyment.] 
ANNE.  Ah — you — 

[She  fails  to  speak  coherently.] 
VALSIN.  Dossonville    has    done    very    well. 
He    procured    your    passport,    brought    your 
"disguises,"  planned  your  journey,  even  gave 
you  directions  how  to  find  these  lodgings  in 
[52] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Boulogne.     Indeed,  I  instructed  him  to  omit 
nothing  for  your  comfort. 

[He  pauses  for  a  moment.] 
If  I  am  a  spy,,  Citizeness  Laseyne,  at  least 
I  trust  your  gracious  intelligence  may  not  cling 
to  the  epithet  "ordinary."  My  soul!  but  I 
appear  to  myself  a  most  uncommon  type  of 
spy — a  very  intricate,  complete,  and  unusual 
spy,  in  fact. 

ANNE  [to  herself,  weeping].  Ah,  poor  Louis! 
VALSIN  [cheerfully].  You  are  beginning  to 
comprehend  ?  That  is  well.  Your  niece's  door 
is  still  ajar  by  the  discreet  width  of  a  finger,  so 
I  assume  that  the  Emigrant  also  begins  to 
comprehend.  Therefore  I  take  my  ease! 

[He  seats  himself  in  the  most 
comfortable  chair  in  the  room, 
crossing  his  legs  in  a  leisurely  at 
titude,  and  lightly  drumming  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  together,  the 
while  his  peaceful  gaze  is  fixed 
upon  the  ceiling.  His  tone,  as 
he  continues,  is  casual.] 

You  understand,  my  Dossonville,  having  long 

ago  occupied  this  very  apartment  myself,   I 

am  serenely  aware  that  the  Emigrant  can  leave 

[53] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

the  other  room  only  by  the  window;  and  as 
this  is  the  fourth  floor,  and  a  proper  number 
of  bayonets  in  the  courtyard  below  are  ar 
ranged  to  receive  any  person  active  enough 
to  descend  by  a  rope  of  bed-clothes,  one  is  con 
fident  that  the  said  Emigrant  will  remain  where 
he  is.  Let  us  make  ourselves  comfortable, 
for  it  is  a  delightful  hour — an  hour  I  have 
long  promised  myself.  I  am  in  a  good 
humor.  Let  us  all  be  happy.  Citizeness  La- 
seyne,  enjoy  yourself.  Call  me  some  bad 
names ! 

ANNE  [between  her  teeth].  If  I  could  find 
one  evil  enough! 

VALSIN  [slapping  his  knee  delightedly].  There 
it  is:  the  complete  incompetence  of  your  class. 
You  poor  aristocrats,  you  do  not  even  know 
how  to  swear.  Your  ancestors  knew  how! 
They  were  fighters;  they  knew  how  to  swear 
because  they  knew  how  to  attack;  you  poor 
moderns  have  no  profanity  left  in  you,  because, 
poisoned  by  idleness,  you  have  forgotten  even 
how  to  resist.  And  yet  you  thought  yourselves 
on  top,  and  so  you  were — but  as  foam  is  on 
top  of  the  wave.  You  forgot  that  power,  like 
genius,  always  comes  from  underneath,  because 
[54] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

it  is  produced  only  by  turmoil.  We  have  had 
to  wring  the  neck  of  your  feather-head  court, 
because  while  the  court  was  the  nation  the 
nation  had  its  pockets  picked.  You  were  at 
the  mercy  of  anybody  with  a  pinch  of  brains: 
adventurers  like  Mazarin,  like  Fouquet,  like 
Law,  or  that  little  commoner,  the  woman  Fish, 
who  called  herself  Pompadour  and  took  France 
— France,  merely! — from  your  King,  and  used 
it  to  her  own  pleasure.  Then,  at  last,  after 
the  swindlers  had  well  plucked  you — at  last, 
unfortunate  creatures,  the  People  got  you! 
Citizeness,  the  People  had  starved:  be  assured 
they  will  eat  you  to  the  bone — and  then  eat 
the  bone!  You  are  helpless  because  you  have 
learned  nothing  and  forgotten  everything. 
You  have  forgotten  everything  in  this  world 
except  how  to  be  fat! 

DOSSONVILLE  [applauding  with  unction]. 
Beautiful!  It  is  beautiful,  all  that!  A  beau 
tiful  speech! 

VALSIN.  Ass! 

DOSSONVILLE  [meekly].  Perfectly,  perfectly. 

VALSIN  [crossly].  That  wasn't  a  speech;  it 
was  the  truth.     Citizeness  Laseyne,  so  far  as 
you  are  concerned,  I  am  the  People. 
[55] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

[He  extends  his  hand  negligently, 
with  open  palm.] 

And  I  have  got  you. 

[He  clenches  his  fingers,  like  a 
cook's  on  the  neck  of  a  fowl.] 

Like  that!    And  I'm  going  to  take  you  back  to 

Paris,  you  and  the  Emigrant. 

[She  stands  in  an  attitude  elo 
quent  of  despair.  His  glance 
roves  from  her  to  the  door  of  the 
other  room,  which  is  still  slightly 
ajar;  and,  smiling  at  some  fugi 
tive  thought,  he  continues,  de 
liberately.] 

I  take  you:  you  and  your  brother — and  that 

rather  pretty  little  person  who  traveled  with 

you. 

[There  is  a  breathless  exclama 
tion  from  the  other  side  of  the 
door,  which  is  flung  open  violent 
ly,  as  ELOISE — flushed,  radiant 
with  anger,  and  altogether  mag 
nificent — sweeps  into  the  room 
to  confront  VALSIN.] 
ELOISE  [slamming  the  door  behind  her]. 

Leave  this  Jack-in- Office  to  me,  Anne! 
[56] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE   JACOBIN 

DOSSONVILLE  [dazed  by  the  vision].  Lord! 
What  glory! 

[He  rises,  bowing  profoundly,  mut 
tering  hoarsely.] 

Oh,  eyes!  Oh,  hair!  Look  at  her  shape! 
Her  chin!  The  divine — 

VALSIN  [getting  up  and  patting  him  re 
assuringly  on  the  back].  The  lady  perceives  her 
effect,  my  Dossonville.  It  is  no  novelty.  Sit 
down,  my  Dossonville. 

[The  still  murmurous  DOSSON 
VILLE  obeys.  VALSIN  turns  to 
ELOISE,  a  brilliant  light  in  his 
eyes.] 

Let  me  greet  one  of  the  nieces  of  Widow  Balsage 
— evidently  not  the  sleepy  one,  and  certainly 
not  ill.  Health  so  transcendent — 

ELOISE  [placing  her  hand  upon  Madame 
LASEYNE'S  shoulder].  This  is  a  clown,  Anne. 
You  need  have  no  fear  of  him  whatever.  His 
petty  authority  does  not  extend  to  us. 

VALSIN  [deferentially].  Will  the  niece  of 
Widow  Balsage  explain  why  it  does  not? 

ELOISE  [turning  upon  him  fiercely].  Because 
the  patriot  Citizeness  Eloise  d'Anville  is  here ! 
VALSIN    [assuming    an    air    of    thoughtful- 

5  [57] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

ness].  Yes,  she  is  here.  That  "permit"  yonder 
even  mentions  her  by  name.  It  is  curious.  I 
shall  have  to  go  into  that.  Continue,  niece. 

ELOISE    [with    supreme    haughtiness].  This 
lady  is  under  her  protection. 

VALSIN  [growing  red].  Pardon.     Under  whose 
protection  ? 

ELOISE  [sulphurously].  Under  the  protection 
of  Eloise  d'Anville! 

[This  has  a  frightful  effect  upon 
VALSIN;  his  face  becomes  con 
torted;  he  clutches  at  his  throat, 
apparently  half  strangled,  stag 
gers,  and  falls  choking  into  the 
easy-chair  he  has  formerly  oc 
cupied.] 

VALSIN  [gasping,  coughing,  incoherent].  Un 
der  the  pro — the  protection — 

[He  explodes  into  peal  after  peal 
of  uproarious  laughter.] 

The  protection  of —  Aha,  ha,  ha,  ho,  ho,  ho! 
[He  rocks  himself  back  and  forth 
unappeasably.] 

ELOISE  [with  a  slight  lift  of  the  eyebrows]. 
This  man  is  an  idiot. 
VALSIN  [during  an  abatement  of  his  attack]. 
[58] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

Oh,  pardon!     It  is — too — much — too  much  for 
me!    You  say — these  people  are — 

ELOISE  [stamping  her  foot].  Under  the  pro 
tection  of  Eloise  d'Anville,  imbecile!  You 
cannot  touch  them.  She  wills  it! 

[At  this,  VALSIN  shouts  as  if 
pleading  for  mercy,  and  beats 
the  air  with  his  hands.  He  strug 
gles  to  his  feet  and,  pounding 
himself  upon  the  chest,  walks 
to  and  fro  in  the  effort  to  control 
his  convulsion.] 

ELOISE  [to  ANNE,  under  cover  of  the  noise 
he  makes].  I  was  wrong:  he  is  not  an  idiot. 
ANNE  [despairingly].  He  laughs  at  you. 
ELOISE  [in  a  quick  whisper].  Out  of  bluster; 
because  he  is  afraid.     He  is  badly  frightened. 
I  know  just  what  to  do.     Go  into  the  other 
room  with  Louis. 

ANNE  [protesting  weakly].  I  can't  hope — 
ELOISE  [flashing  from  a  cloud].  You  failed, 
didn't  you? 

[Madame  DE  LASEYNE,  after  a 
tearful  perusal  of  the  stern  re 
sourcefulness  now  written  in  the 
younger  woman's  eyes,  succumbs 
[59] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

with  a  piteous  gesture  of  assent 
and  goes  out  forlornly.  ELOISE 
closes  the  door  and  stands  with 
her  back  to  it.] 

VALSIN  [paying  no  attention  to  them], 
Eloise  d'Anville! 

[Still    pacing    the    room    in    the 
struggle  to  subdue  his  hilarity.] 
This  young  citizeness  speaks  of  the  protection 
of  Eloise  d'Anville! 

[Leaning  feebly  upon  DOSSON- 
VILLE'S  shoulder.] 

Do  you  hear,  my  Dossonville  ?     It  is  an  ecstasy. 
Ecstasize,  then.     Scream,  Dossonville! 

DOSSONVILLE  [puzzled,  but  evidently  ac 
customed  to  being  so,  cackles  instantly].  Per 
fectly.  Ha,  ha!  The  citizeness  is  not  only 
stirringly  beautiful,  she  is  also — 

VALSIN.  She  is  also  a  wit.     Susceptible  hench 
man,  concentrate  your  thoughts  upon  domes 
ticity.     In  this  presence  remember  your  wife! 
ELOISE  [peremptorily].  Dismiss  that  person. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 

VALSIN  [wiping  his  eyes].  Dossonville,   you 
are  not  required.     We  are  going  to  be  senti 
mental,  and  heaven  knows   you  are  not  the 
[60] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

moon.  In  fact,  you  are  a  fat  old  man.  Exit, 
obesity!  Go  somewhere  and  think  about  your 
children.  Flit,  whale! 

DOSSONVILLE    [rising].  Perfectly,    my   chief 
tain. 

[He  goes  to  the  broken  door.] 
ELOISE   [tapping  the  floor  with  her  shoe]. 
Out   of  hearing! 
VALSIN.  The  floor  below. 
DOSSONVILLE.  Well    understood.     Perfectly, 
perfectly ! 

[He  goes  out  through  the  hallway ; 
disappears,      chuckling     grossly. 
There  are  some  moments  of  si 
lence  within  the  room,  while  he 
is  heard  clumping  down  a  flight 
of  stairs;  then  VALSIN  turns  to 
ELOISE  with  burlesque  ardor.] 
VALSIN.  "Alone  at  last!" 
ELOISE  [maintaining  her  composure].  Rabbit! 
VALSIN  [dropping  into  the  chair  at  the  desk, 
with  mock  dejection].  Repulsed  at  the  outset! 
Ah,  Citizeness,  there   were   moments   on   the 
journey  from  Paris  when  I  thought  I  detected 
a  certain  kindness  in  your  glances  at  the  lonely 
stranger. 

[61] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

ELOISE  [folding  her  arms].  You  are  to  with 
draw  your  soldiers,  countersign  the  "permit," 
and  allow  my  friends  to  embark  at  once. 

VALSIN  [with  solemnity].  Do  you  give  it  as 
an  order,  Citizeness? 

ELOISE.  I  do.  You  will  receive  suitable 
political  advancement. 

VALSIN  [in  a  choked  voice].  You  mean  as  a 
— a  reward? 

ELOISE  [haughtily].  I  guarantee  that  you 
shall  receive  it! 

[He  looks  at  her  strangely;  then, 
with  a  low  moan,  presses  his 
hand  to  his  side,  seeming  upon 
the  point  of  a  dangerous  seizure.] 

VALSIN  [managing  to  speak].  I  can  only  beg 
you  to  spare  me.  You  have  me  at  your 
mercy. 

ELOISE  [swelling].  It  is  well  for  you  that  you 
understand  that ! 

VALSIN  [shaking  his  hand  ruefully].  Yes; 
you  see  I  have  a  bad  liver :  it  may  become  per 
manently  enlarged.  Laughter  is  my  great 
danger. 

ELOISE  [crying  out  with  rage].  Oh! 

VALSIN  [dolorously].  I  have  continually  to 
[62] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

remind  myself  that  I  am  no  longer  in  the  first 
flush  of  youth. 

ELOISE.  Idiot!    Do  you  not  know  who   I 
am! 
VALSIN.  You?  Oh  yes — 

[He  checks  himself  abruptly ;  looks 
at  her  with  brief  intensity;  turns 
his  eyes  away,  half  closing  them 
in  quick  meditation;  smiles,  as 
upon  some  secret  pleasantry,  and 
proceeds  briskly.] 
Oh  yes,  yes,  I  know  who  you  are. 

ELOISE  [beginning  haughtily].  Then  you — 
VALSIN  [at  once  cutting  her  off].  As  to  your 
name,  I  do  not  say.  Names  at  best  are  de 
tails  ;  and  your  own  is  a  detail  that  could  hardly 
be  thought  to  matter.  What  you  are  is  obvious : 
you  joined  Louis  and  his  sister  in  Paris  at  the 
barriers,  and  traveled  with  them  as  "Marie 
Balsage,"  a  sister.  You  might  save  us  a  little 
trouble  by  giving  us  your  real  name;  you  will 
probably  refuse,  and  the  police  will  have  to 
look  it  up  when  I  take  you  back  to  Paris. 
Frankly,  you  are  of  no  importance  to  us, 
though  of  course  we'll  send  you  to  the  Tribunal. 
No  doubt  you  are  a  poor  relative  of  the  Valny- 
[63] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

Cheraults,  or,  perhaps,  you  may  have  been  a 
governess  in  the  Laseyne  family,  or — 

ELOISE  [under  her  breath].  Idiot!     Idiot! 

VALSIN  [with  subterranean  enjoyment,  watch 
ing  her  sidelong].  Or  the  good-looking  wife  of 
some  faithful  retainer  of  the  Emigrant's,  per 
haps. 

ELOISE  [with  a  shrill  laugh].  Does  the  Com 
mittee  of  Public  Safety  betray  the  same  in 
telligence  in  the  appointment  of  all  its  agents? 
[Violently.]  Imbecile,  I — 

VALSIN  [quickly  raising  his  voice  to  check 
her].  You  are  of  no  importance,  I  tell  you! 

[Changing  his  tone.] 

Of  course  I  mean  politically.  [With  broad  gal 
lantry.]  Otherwise,  I  am  the  first  to  admit 
extreme  susceptibility.  I  saw  that  you  ob 
served  it  on  the  way — at  the  taverns,  in  the 
diligence,  at  the  posting-houses,  at — 

ELOISE  [with  serenity].  Yes.  I  am  accus 
tomed  to  oglers. 

VALSIN.  Alas,  I  believe  you!  My  unfor 
tunate  sex  is  but  too  responsive. 

ELOISE  [gasping].  "Responsive" —    Oh! 

VALSIN  [indulgently].  Let  us  return  to  the 
safer  subject.     Presently  I  shall  arrest  those 
[64] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

people  in  the  other  room  and,  regretfully,  you 
too.  But  first  I  pamper  myself;  I  chat;  I 
have  an  attractive  woman  to  listen.  In  the 
matter  of  the  arrest,  I  delay  my  fire;  I  do  not 
flash  in  the  pan,  but  I  lengthen  my  fuse.  Why? 
For  the  same  reason  that  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  and  had  something  good  to  eat,  I  always 
first  paid  it  the  compliments  of  an  epicure.  I 
looked  at  it  a  long  while.  I  played  with  it. 
Then — I  devoured  it!  I  am  still  like  that. 
And  Louis  yonder  is  good  to  eat,  because  I 
happen  not  to  love  him.  However,  I  should 
mention  that  I  doubt  if  he  could  recall  either 
myself  or  the  circumstance  which  annoyed 
me;  some  episodes  are  sometimes  so  little  to 
certain  people  and  so  significant  to  certain 
other  people. 

[He    smiles,     stretching     himself 
luxuriously  in  his  chair.] 

Behold  me,  Citizeness!  I  am  explained.  I  am 
indulging  my  humor:  I  play  with  my  cake. 
Let  us  see  into  what  curious  little  figures  I  can 
twist  it. 

ELOISE.  Idiot! 

VALSIN  [pleasantly].  I  have  lost  count,  but 
I  think  that  is  the  sixth  idiot  you  have  called 
[65] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

me.  Aha,  it  is  only  history,  which  one  admires 
for  repeating  itself.  Good!  Let  us  march. 
I  shall  play — 

[He  picks  up  the  "permit"  from 
the  desk,  studies  it  absently,  and 
looks  whimsically  at  her  over  his 
shoulder,  continuing:] 
I  shall  play  with — with  all  four  of  you. 

ELOISE    [impulsively].  Four? 

VALSIN.  I  am  not  easy  to  deceive;  there  are 
four  of  you  here. 

ELOISE  [staring].  So? 

VALSIN.  Louis  brought  you  and  his  sister 
from  Paris:  a  party  of  three.  This  "permit" 
which  he  forged  is  for  four;  the  original  three 
and  the  woman  you  mentioned  a  while  ago, 
Eloise  d'Anville.  Hence  she  must  have  joined 
you  here.  The  deduction  is  plain:  there  are 
three  people  in  that  room:  the  Emigrant,  his 
sister,  and  this  Eloise  d'Anville.  To  the 
trained  mind  such  reasoning  is  simple. 

ELOISE  [elated].  Perfectly! 

VALSIN  [with  an  air  of  cunning].  Nothing 
escapes  me.  You  see  that. 

ELOISE.  At  first  glance !  I  make  you  my  most 
profound  compliments.     Sir,  you  are  an  eagle! 
[66] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

VALSIN  [smugly].  Thanks.  Now,  then,  pretty 
governess,  you  thought  this  d'Anville  might  be 
able  to  help  you.  What  put  that  in  your  head  ? 

ELOISE  [with  severity].  Do  you  pretend  not 
to  know  what  she  is? 

VALSIN.  A  heroine  I  have  had  the  misfortune 
never  to  encounter.  But  I  am  informed  of  her 
character  and  history. 

ELOISE  [sternly].  Then  you  understand  that 
even  the  Agent  of  the  National  Committee 
risks  his  head  if  he  dares  touch  people  she 
chooses  to  protect. 

VALSIN  [extending  his  hand  in  plaintive 
appeal].  Be  generous  to  my  opacity.  How 
could  she  protect  anybody? 

ELOISE  [with  condescension].  She  has  earned 
the  gratitude — 

VALSIN.  Of  whom? 

ELOISE  [superbly].  Of  the  Nation! 

VALSIN   [breaking  out   again].  Ha,   ha,   ha! 

[Clutching  at  his  side.] 

Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  liver  of  mine.     I  must  not 
die;  my  life  is  still  useful. 

ELOISE  [persisting  stormily].  Of  the  People, 
stupidity!  Of  the  whole  People,  dolt!  Of 
France,  blockhead ! 

[67] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

VALSIN  [with  a  violent  effort,  conquering  his 
hilarity].  There!  I  am  saved.  Let  us  be 
solemn,  my  child;  it  is  better  for  my  malady. 
You  are  still  so  young  that  one  can  instruct 
you  that  individuals  are  rarely  grateful; 
"the  People,"  never.  What  you  call  "the 
People"  means  folk  who  are  not  always  sure 
of  their  next  meal ;  therefore  their  great  political 
and  patriotic  question  is  the  cost  of  food. 
Their  heroes  are  the  champions  who  are  going 
to  make  it  cheaper;  and  when  these  champions 
fail  them  or  cease  to  be  useful  to  them,  then 
they  either  forget  these  poor  champions — or  eat 
them.  Let  us  hear  what  your  Eloise  d'Anville 
has  done  to  earn  the  reward  of  being  forgotten 
instead  of  eaten. 

ELOISE  [her  lips  quivering].  She  surrendered 
her  property  voluntarily.  She  gave  up  all  she 
owned  to  the  Nation. 

VALSIN  [genially].  And  immediately  went  to 
live  with  her  relatives  in  great  luxury. 

ELOISE  [choking].  The  Republic  will  protect 
her.  She  gave  her  whole  estate — 

VALSIN.  And  the  order  for  its  confiscation 
was  already  written  when  she  did  it. 

ELOISE  [passionately].  Ah — liar! 
[68] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

VALSIN  [smiling].  I  have  seen  the  order. 
[She  leans  against  the  wall, 
breathing  heavily.  He  goes  on, 
smoothly.] 

Yes,  this  martyr  "gave"  us  her  property;  but 
one  hears  that  she  went  to  the  opera  just  the 
same  and  wore  more  jewels  than  ever,  and  lived 
richly  upon  the  Laseynes  and  Valny-Cheraults, 
until  they  were  confiscated.  Why,  all  the  world 
knows  about  this  woman ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  to 
your  credit,  my  governess,  I  think  you  have  a 
charitable  heart :  you  are  the  only  person  I  ever 
heard  speak  kindly  of  her. 

ELOISE  [setting  her  teeth].  Venom! 

VALSIN  [observing  her  slyly].  It  is  with  dif 
ficulty  I  am  restraining  my  curiosity  to  see  her 
— also  to  hear  her! — when  she  learns  of  her 
proscription  by  a  grateful  Republic. 

ELOISE  [with  shrill  mockery].  Proscribed? 
Eloise  d'Anville  proscribed?  Your  inventions 
should  be  more  plausible,  Goodman  Spy!  I 
knew  you  were  lying — 

VALSIN  [smiling].  You  do  not  believe — 

ELOISE  [proudly],  Eloise  d'Anville  is  a  known 
Girondist.  The  Gironde  is  the  real  power  in 
France. 

[69] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

VALSIN  [mildly].  That  party  has  fallen. 

ELOISE  [with  fire].  Not  far!     It  will  revive. 

VALSIN.  Pardon,  Citizeness,  but  you  are  be 
hind  the  times,  and  they  are  very  fast  now 
adays — the  times.  The  Gironde  is  dead. 

ELOISE  [ominously].  It  may  survive  you,  my 
friend.  Take  care! 

VALSIN  [unimpressed].  The  Gironde  had  a 
grand  fagade,  and  that  was  all.  It  was  a  party 
composed  of  amateurs  and  orators;  and  of 
course  there  were  some  noisy  camp-followers 
and  a  few  comic-opera  vivandieres,  such  as  this 
d'Anville.  In  short,  the  Gironde  looked  enor 
mous  because  it  was  hollow.  It  was  like  a  pie 
that  is  all  crust.  We  have  tapped  the  crust — 
with  a  knife,  Citizeness.  There  is  nothing  left. 

ELOISE  [contemptuously].  You  say  so.  Never 
theless,  the  Rolands — 

VALSIN  [gravely].  Roland  was  found  in  a  field 
yesterday;  he  had  killed  himself.  His  wife  was 
guillotined  the  day  after  you  left  Paris.  Every 
one  of  their  political  friends  is  proscribed. 

ELOISE  [shaking  as  with  bitter  cold].  It  is 
a  lie!  Not  Eloise  d'Anville! 

VALSIN  [rising].  Would  you  like  to  see  the 
warrant  for  her  arrest. 
[70] 


ELOISE    D  ANV1LLE 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

[He  takes  a  packet  of  documents 
from  his  breast  pocket,  selects 
one,  and  spreads  it  open  before 
her.] 

Let  me  read  you  her  description:  "Eloise 
d'Anville,  aristocrat.  Figure,  comely.  Com 
plexion,  blond.  Eyes,  dark  blue.  Nose,  straight. 
Mouth,  wide — " 

ELOISE  [in  a  burst  of  passion,  striking  the 
warrant  a  violent  blow  with  her  clenched  fist.] 
Let  them  dare! 

[Beside  herself,  she  strikes  again, 
tearing  the  paper  from  his  grasp. 
She  stamps  upon  it.] 
Let  them  dare,  I  say ! 

VALSIN  [picking  up  the  warrant].  Dare  to 
say  her  mouth  is  wide? 

ELOISE  [cyclonic].  Dare  to  arrest  her! 
VALSIN.  It   does   seem  a   pity. 

[He    folds    the    warrant    slowly 

and   replaces   it   in   his   pocket.] 

Yes,  a  great  pity.     She  was  the  one  amusing 

thing   in    all    this    somberness.     She    will    be 

missed.     The  Revolution  will  lack  its  joke. 

ELOISE  [recoiling,  her  passion  exhausted]. 
Ah,  infamy! 

[71] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

[She  turns  from  him,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands]. 

VALSIN  [with  a  soothing  gesture].  Being  only 
her  friend,  you  speak  mildly.  The  d'Anville 
herself  would  call  it  blasphemy. 

ELOISE  [with  difficulty].  She  is — so  vain — 
then? 

VALSIN  [lightly].  Oh,  a  type — an  actress. 

ELOISE  [her  back  to  him].  How  do  you  know? 
You  said — 

VALSIN.  That  I  had  not  encountered  her. 
[Glibly.]  One  knows  best  the  people  one  has 
never  seen.  Intimacy  confuses  judgment.  I 
confess  to  that  amount  of  hatred  for  the  former 
Marquis  de  Valny-Cherault  that  I  take  as  great 
an  interest  in  all  that  concerns  him  as  if  I  loved 
him.  And  the  little  d'Anville  concerns  him — 
yes,  almost  one  would  say,  consumes  him.  The 
unfortunate  man  is  said  to  be  so  blindly  faith 
ful  that  he  can  speak  her  name  without  laugh 
ing. 

ELOISE  [stunned].  Oh! 

VALSIN  [going  on,  cheerily].  No  one  else  can 

do  that,  Citizeness.     Jacobins,  Cordeliers,  He- 

bertists,  even  the  shattered  relics  of  the  Gironde 

itself,  all  alike  join  in  the  colossal  laughter  at 

[72] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

this  Tricoteuse  in  Sevres — this  Jeanne  d'Arc 
in   rice-powder ! 

ELOISE  [tragically].  They  laugh — and  pro 
claim  her  an  outlaw! 

VALSIN  [waving  his  hand  carelessly].  Oh,  it 
is  only  that  we  are  sweeping  up  the  last  rem 
nants  of  aristocracy,  and  she  goes  with  the  rest 
— into  the  dust-heap.  She  should  have  re 
mained  a  royalist;  the  final  spectacle  might 
have  had  dignity.  As  it  is,  she  is  not  of  her 
own  class,  not  of  ours :  neither  fish  nor  flesh  nor 
— but  yes,  perhaps,  after  all,  she  is  a  fowl. 

ELOISE  [brokenly].  Alas!  Homing — with 
wounded  wing! 

[She  sinks  into  a  chair  with  pa 
thetic  grace,  her  face  in  her  hands.] 

VALSIN  [surreptitiously  grinning].  Not  at  all 
what  I  meant.  [Brutally.]  Peacocks  don't  fly. 

ELOISE  [regaining  her  feet  at  a  bound].  You 
imitation  dandy!  You — 

VALSIN  [with  benevolence].  My  dear,  your 
indignation  for  your  friend  is  chivalrous.  It 
is  admirable;  but  she  is  not  worth  it.  You 
do  not  understand  her :  you  have  probably  seen 
her  so  much  that  you  have  never  seen  her  as 
she  is. 

6  [73] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

ELOISE  [witheringly].  But  you,  august  Zeus, 
having  never  seen  her,  will  reveal  her  to  me ! 

VALSIN  [smoothly  urbane].  If  you  have  ears. 
You  see,  she  is  not  altogether  unique,  but  of  a 
variety  known  to  men  who  are  wise  enough  to 
make  a  study  of  women. 

ELOISE  [snapping  out  a  short,  loud  laugh  in 
his  face].  PoujJ! 

VALSIN  [unruffled].  I  profess  myself  an  ap 
prentice.  The  science  itself  is  but  in  its  in 
fancy.  Women  themselves  understand  very 
well  that  they  are  to  be  classified,  and  they 
fear  that  we  shall  perceive  it:  they  do  not 
really  wish  to  be  known.  Yet  it  is  coming; 
some  day  our  cyclopedists  will  have  you  sorted, 
classed,  and  defined  with  precision;  but  the 
d'Alembert  of  the  future  will  not  be  a  woman, 
because  no  woman  so  disloyal  will  ever  be 
found.  Men  have  to  acquire  loyalty  to  their 
sex:  yours  is  an  instinct.  Citizen  governess, 
I  will  give  you  a  reading  of  the  little  d'Anville 
from  this  unwritten  work.  To  begin — 

ELOISE  [feverishly  interested,  but  affecting 
languor].  Must  you? 

VALSIN.  To  Eloise  d'Anville  the  most  in 
teresting  thing  about  a  rose-bush  has  always 
[74] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

been  that  Eloise  d'Anville  could  smell  it. 
Moonlight  becomes  important  when  it  falls 
upon  her  face ;  sunset  is  worthy  when  she  grows 
rosy  in  it.  To  her  mind,  the  universe  was  set 
in  motion  to  be  the  background  for  a  decoration, 
and  she  is  the  decoration.  She  believes  that 
the  cathedral  was  built  for  the  fresco.  And 
when  a  dog  interests  her,  it  is  because  he  would 
look  well  beside  her  in  a  painting.  Such  dogs 
have  no  minds.  I  refer  you  to  all  the  dogs 
in  the  portraits  of  Beauties. 

ELOISE  [not  at  all  displeased;  pretending 
carelessness].  Ah,  you  have  heard  that  she  is 
beautiful  ? 

VALSIN.  Far  worse:  that  she  is  a  Beauty. 
Let  nothing  ever  tempt  you,  my  dear,  into  set 
ting  up  in  that  line.  For  you  are  very  well- 
appearing,  I  assure  you;  and  if  you  had  been 
surrounded  with  all  the  disadvantages  of  the 
d  'Anville,  who  knows  but  that  you  might  have 
become  as  famous  a  Beauty  as  she?  What 
makes  a  Beauty  is  not  the  sumptuous  sculpture 
alone,  but  a  very  peculiar  arrogance — not  in 
the  least  arrogance  of  mind,  my  little  governess. 
In  this,  your  d'Anville  emerged  from  child 
hood  full-panoplied  indeed;  and  the  feather- 
[75] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE   JACOBIN 

head  court  fell  headlong  at  her  feet.     It  was 
the  fated  creature's  ruin. 

ELOISE  [placidly].  And  it  is  because  of  her 
beauty  that  you  drag  her  to  the  guillotine? 

VALSIN.  Bless  you,  I  merely  convey  her! 

ELOISE.  Tell  me,  logician,  was  it  not  her 
beauty  that  inspired  her  to  give  her  property 
to  the  Nation? 

VALSIN.  It  was. 

ELOISE.  What  perception!  I  am  faint  with 
admiration.  And  no  doubt  it  was  her  beauty 
that  made  her  a  Republican? 

VALSIN.  What  else? 

ELOISE.  Hail,  oracle! 

[She  releases  an  arpeggio  of  sa 
tiric  laughter.] 

VALSIN.  That  laugh  is  diaphanous.  I  see 
you  through  it,  already  convinced. 

[She  stops  laughing  immediately.] 
Ha !  we  may  proceed.  Remark  this,  governess : 
a  Beauty  is  the  living  evidence  of  man's  im 
mortality;  the  one  plain  proof  that  he  has  a 
soul. 

ELOISE.  It  is  not  so  bad  then,  after  all? 

VALSIN.  It  is  utterly  bad.     But  of  all  people 
a  Beauty  is  most  conscious  of  her  duality.     Her 
[76] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

whole  life  is  based  upon  her  absolute  knowledge 
that  her  Self  and  her  body  are  two.  She 
sacrifices  all  things  to  her  beauty  because  her 
beauty  feeds  her  Self  with  a  dreadful  food 
which  it  has  made  her  unable  to  live  without. 

ELOISE.  My  little  gentleman,  you  talk  like 
a  sentimental  waiter.  Your  metaphors  are  all 
hot  from  the  kitchen. 

VALSIN  [nettled].  It  is  natural;  unlike  your 
Eloise,  I  am  really  of  "the  People" — and 
starved  much  in  my  youth. 

ELOISE.  But,  like  her,  you  are  still  hungry. 

VALSIN.  A  Beauty  is  a  species  of  cannibal 
priestess,  my  dear.  She  will  make  burnt- 
offerings  of  her  father  and  her  mother,  her 
sisters — her  lovers — to  her  beauty,  that  it  may 
in  turn  bring  her  the  food  she  must  have  or 
perish. 

ELOISE.  Bourn! 

[She  snaps  her  fingers.] 

And  of  course  she  bathes  in  the  blood  of  little 
children  ? 

VALSIN  [grimly].  Often. 

ELOISE  [averting  her  gaze  from  his].  This 
mysterious  food — 

VALSIN.  Not  at  all  mysterious.     Sensation. 
[77] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE   JACOBIN 

There  you  have  it.  And  that  is  why  Eloise 
d'Anville  is  a  renegade.  You  understand  per 
fectly. 

ELOISE.  You  are  too  polite.     No. 

VALSIN  [gaily].  Behold,  then!  Many  women 
who  are  not  Beauties  are  beautiful,  but  in  such 
women  you  do  not  always  discover  beauty  at 
your  first  glance:  it  is  disclosed  with  a  subtle 
tardiness.  It  does  not  dazzle;  it  is  reluctant; 
but  it  grows  as  you  look  again  and  again. 
You  get  a  little  here,  a  little  there,  like  glimpses 
of  children  hiding  in  a  garden.  It  is  shy,  and 
sometimes  closed  in  from  you  altogether,  and 
then,  unexpectedly,  this  belated  loveliness 
springs  into  bloom  before  your  very  eyes. 
It  retains  the  capacity  of  surprise,  the  vital 
element  of  charm.  But  the  Beauty  lays  all 
waste  before  her  at  a  stroke:  it  is  soon  over. 
Thus  your  Eloise,  brought  to  court,  startled 
Versailles;  the  sensation  was  overwhelming. 
Then  Versailles  got  used  to  her,  just  as  it  had 
to  its  other  prodigies :  the  fountains  were  there, 
the  King  was  there,  the  d'Anville  was  there; 
and  naturally,  one  had  seen  them;  saw  them 
every  day — one  talked  of  matters  less  accepted. 
That  was  horrible  to  Eloise.  She  had  tasted; 
[78] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    JACOBIN 

the  appetite,  once  stirred,  was  insatiable.  At 
any  cost  she  must  henceforth  have  always  the 
sensation  of  being  a  sensation.  She  must  be 
the  pivot  of  a  reeling  world.  So  she  went  into 
politics.  Ah,  Citizeness,  there  was  one  man  who 
understood  Beauties — not  Homer,  who  wrote 
of  Helen!  Romance  is  gallant  by  profession, 
and  Homer  lied  like  a  poet.  For  the  truth 
about  the  Trojan  War  is  that  the  wise  Ulysses 
made  it,  not  because  Paris  stole  Helen,  but 
because  the  Trojans  were  threatening  to  bring 
her  back. 

ELOISE  [unwarily].  Who  was  the  man  that 
understood  Beauties? 

VALSIN.  Bluebeard. 

[He  crosses  the  room  to  the  dress 
ing-table,  leans  his  back  against 
it  in  an  easy  attitude,  his  elbows 
resting  upon  the  top.] 

ELOISE  [slowly,  a  little  tremulously].  And  so 
Eloise  d'Anville  should  have  her  head  cut  off? 

VALSIN.  Well,  she  thought  she  was  in  politics, 
didn't  she?  [Suavely.]  You  may  be  sure  she 
thoroughly  enjoyed  her  hallucination  that  she 
was  a  great  figure  in  the  Revolution — which 
was  cutting  off  the  heads  of  so  many  of  her 
[79] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    JACOBIN 

relatives  and  old  friends!    Don't  waste  your 
pity,  my  dear. 

ELOISE  [looking  at  him  fixedly].  Citizen,  you 
must  have  thought  a  great  deal  about  my  un 
happy  friend.  She  might  be  flattered  by  so 
searching  an  interest. 

VALSIN  [negligently].  Not  interest  in  her, 
governess,  but  in  the  Emigrant  who  cools  his 
heels  on  the  other  side  of  that  door,  greatly  to 
my  enjoyment,  waiting  my  pleasure  to  arrest 
him.  The  poor  wretch  is  the  one  remaining 
lover  of  this  girl:  faithful  because  he  let  his 
passion  for  her  become  a  habit;  and  he  will 
never  get  over  it  until  he  has  had  possession. 
She  has  made  him  suffer  frightfully,  but  I 
shall  never  forgive  her  for  not  having  dealt 
him  the  final  stroke.  It  would  have  saved  me 
all  the  bother  I  have  been  put  to  in  avenging 
the  injury  he  did  me. 

ELOISE  [frowning].  What  "final  stroke  "  could 
she  have  "dealt"  him? 

VALSIN  [with  sudden  vehement  intensity]. 
She  could  have  loved  him! 

[He   strikes   the   table   with   his 
fist.] 

I  see  it !    I  see  it !    Beauty's  husband !   [Pound- 
[8ol 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    JACOBIN 

ing  the  table  with  each  exclamation,  his  voice 
rising  in  excitement.]  What  a  vision!  This 
damned,  proud,  loving  Louis,  a  pomade  bearer ! 
A  buttoner!  An  errand-boy  to  the  perfumer's, 
to  the  chemist's,  to  the  milliner's !  A  groom  of 
the  powder-closet — 

ELOISE  [snatching  at  the  opportunity].  How 
noisy  you  are! 

VALSIN  [discomfited,  apologetically].  You 
see,  it  is  only  so  lately  that  we  of  "the  People" 
have  dared  even  to  whisper.  Of  course,  now 
that  we  are  free  to  shout,  we  overdo  it.  We 
let  our  voices  out,  we  let  our  joys  out,  we  let 
our  hates  out.  We  let  everything  out — except 
our  prisoners ! 

[He  smiles  winningly.] 

ELOISE  [slowly].  Do  you  guess  what  all  this 
bluster — this  tirade  upon  the  wickedness  of 
beauty — makes  me  think? 

VALSIN.  Certainly.  Being  a  woman,  you 
cannot  imagine  a  bitterness  which  is  not 
"personal." 

ELOISE  [laughing].  "Being  a  woman,"  I 
think  that  the  person  who  has  caused  you  the 
greatest  suffering  in  your  life  must  be  very 
good-looking ! 

[81] 


BEAUTY    AND   THE   JACOBIN 

VALSIN  [calmly].  Quite  right.     It  was  pre 
cisely  this  d'Anville.     I  will  tell  you. 

[He  sits  on  the  arm  of  a  chair  near 
her,  and  continues  briskly.]- 
I  was  not  always  a  politician.  Six  years  ago 
I  was  a  soldier  in  the  Valny  regiment  of  cavalry. 
That  was  the  old  army,  that  droll  army,  that 
royal  army;  so  ridiculous  that  it  was  truly 
majestic.  In  the  Valny  regiment  we  had  some 
rouge-pots  for  officers — and  for  a  colonel,  who 
but  our  Emigrant  yonder!  Aha!  we  suffered 
in  the  ranks,  let  me  tell  you,  when  Eloise  had 
been  coy;  and  one  morning  it  was  my  turn. 
You  may  have  heard  that  she  was  betrothed 
first  to  Louis  and  later  to  several  others?  My 
martyrdom  occurred  the  day  after  she  had 
announced  to  the  court  her  betrothal  to  the 
young  Due  de  Creil,  whose  father  afterward 
interfered.  Louis  put  us  on  drill  in  a  hard  rain : 
he  had  the  habit  of  relieving  his  chagrin  like 
that.  My  horse  fell,  and  happened  to  shower 
our  commander  with  mud.  Louis  let  out  all 
his  rage  upon  me:  it  was  an  excuse,  and,  nat 
urally,  he  disliked  mud.  But  I  was  rolling  in 
it,  with  my  horse:  I  also  disliked  it — and  I  was 
indiscreet  enough  to  attempt  some  small  reply. 
[82] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    JACOBIN 

That  finished  my  soldiering,  Citizeness.  He  had 
me  tied  to  a  post  before  the  barracks  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  I  remember  with  remarkable 
distinctness  that  the  valets  of  heaven  had 
neglected  to  warm  the  rain  for  that  bath;  that 
it  was  February;  and  that  Louis's  orders  had 
left  me  nothing  to  wear  upon  my  back  except 
an  unfulsome  descriptive  placard  and  my  mod 
esty.  Altogether  it  was  a  disadvantageous 
position,  particularly  for  the  exchange  of  rep 
artee  with  such  of  my  comrades  as  my  youth 
ful  amiability  had  not  endeared;  I  have  seldom 
seen  more  cheerful  indifference  to  bad  weather. 
Inclement  skies  failed  to  injure  the  spectacle: 
it  was  truly  the  great  performance  of  my  career ; 
some  people  would  not  even  go  home  to  eat,  and 
peddlers  did  a  good  trade  in  cakes  and  wine. 
In  the  evening  they  whipped  me  conscientiously 
— my  tailor  has  never  since  made  me  an  en 
tirely  comfortable  coat.  Then  they  gave  me 
the  place  of  honor  at  the  head  of  a  procession 
by  torchlight  and  drummed  me  out  of  camp 
with  my  placard  upon  my  back.  So  I  adopted 
another  profession:  I  had  a  friend  who  was  a 
doctor  in  the  stables  of  d'Artois;  and  I  knew 
horses.  He  made  me  his  assistant. 
[83] 


BEAUTY    AND  THE    JACOBIN 

ELOISE  [shuddering].  You  are  a  veterinarian! 

VALSIN  [smiling].  No;  a  horse-doctor.  It 
was  thus  I  "retired"  from  the  army  and  became 
a  politician.  My  friend  was  only  a  horse- 
doctor  himself,  but  his  name  happened  to  be 
Marat. 

ELOISE.  Ah,  frightful! 

[For  the  first  time  she  begins  to 
feel  genuine  alarm.] 

VALSIN.  The  sequence  is  simple.  If  Eloise 
d'Anville  hadn't  coquetted  with  young  Creil  I 
shouldn't  be  Commissioner  here  to-day,  settling 
my  account  with  Louis.  I  am  in  his  debt  for 
more  than  the  beating:  I  should  tell  you  there 
was  a  woman  in  my  case,  a  slender  lace-maker 
with  dark  eyes — very  pretty  eyes.  She  had  fur 
nished  me  with  a  rival,  a  corporal;  and  he 
brought  her  for  a  stroll  in  the  rain  past  our  bar 
racks  that  day  when  I  was  attracting  so  much 
unsought  attention.  They  waited  for  the  after 
piece,  enjoyed  a  pasty  and  a  bottle  of  Beaune, 
and  went  away  laughing  cozily  together.  I 
did  not  see  my  pretty  lace-maker  again,  not  for 
years — not  until  a  month  ago.  Her  corporal 
was  still  with  her,  and  it  was  their  turn  to  be  un 
desirably  conspicuous.  They  were  part  of  a 
[84] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE   JACOBIN 

procession  passing  along  the  Rue  St.  Honore 
on  its  way  to  the  Place  of  the  Revolution. 
They  were  standing  up  in  the  cart;  the  lace- 
maker  had  grown  fat,  and  she  was  scolding  her 
poor  corporal  bitterly.  What  a  habit  that  must 
have  been! — they  were  not  five  minutes  from 
the  guillotine.  I  own  that  a  thrill  of  gratitude 
to  Louis  temporarily  softened  me  toward  him, 
though  at  the  very  moment  I  was  following 
him  through  the  crowd.  At  least  he  saved  me 
from  the  lace-maker ! 

ELOISE  [shrinking  from  him].  You  are  hor 
rible! 

VALSIN.  To  my  regret  you  must  find  me  more 
and  more  so. 

ELOISE  [panting].  You  are  going  to  take  us 
back  to  Paris,  then?  To  the  Tribunal — and  to 
the— 

[She  covers    her    eyes  with  her 
hands.] 

VALSIN  [gravely].  I  can  give  you  no  comfort, 
governess.  You  are  involved  with  the  Emi 
grant,  and,  to  be  frank,  I  am  going  to  do  as 
horrible  things  to  Louis  as  I  can  invent — and  I 
am  an  ingenious  man.  [His  manner  becomes 
sinister.]  I  am  near  the  top.  The  cinders  of 
[85] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    JACOBIN 

Marat  are  in  the  Pantheon,  but  Robespierre 
still  flames;  and  he  claims  me  as  his  friend.  I 
can  do  what  I  will.  And  I  have  much  in  store 
for  Louis  before  he  shall  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
die! 

ELOISE   [faintly].     And — and  Eloise — d'An- 
ville? 

[Her  hands  fall   from  her  face: 
he  sees  large,  beautiful  tears  upon 
her  cheeks.] 
VALSIN   [coldly].  Yes. 

[She  is  crushed  for  the  moment; 
then,    recovering   herself   with   a 
violent  effort,  lifts  her  head  defi 
antly  and  stands  erect,  facing  him.] 
ELOISE.  You   take   her  head   because  your 
officer  punished  you,  six  years  ago,  for  a  breach 
of  military  discipline! 

VALSIN  [in  a  lighter  tone].  Oh  no.  I  take  it, 
just  as  she  injured  me — incidentally.  In  truth, 
Citizeness,  it  isn't  I  who  take  it :  I  only  arrest 
her  because  the  government  has  proscribed  her. 
ELOISE.  And  you've  just  finished  telling 
me  you  were  preparing  tortures  for  her!  I 
thought  you  an  intelligent  man.  Pah !  You're 
only  a  gymnast. 

\86] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

[She  turns  away  from  him  haugh 
tily  and  moves  toward  the  door.] 
VALSIN  [touching  his  scarf  of  office].  True.     I 

climb. 

[She  halts  suddenly,  as  if  startled 
by  this;  she  stands  as  she  is,  her 
back  to  him,  for  several  moments, 
and  does  not  change  her  attitude 
when  she  speaks.] 
ELOISE  [slowly].  You  climb  alone. 
VALSIN   [with   a  suspicious  glance   at  her]. 

Yes — alone. 

ELOISE  [in  a  low  voice].  Why  didn't  you  take 

the  lace-maker  with  you?    You  might  have 

been  happier. 

[Very  slowly  she  turns  and  comes 
toward  him,  her  eyes  full  upon 
his:  she  moves  deliberately  and 
with  incomparable  grace.  He 
seems  to  be  making  an  effort  to 
look  away,  and  failing:  he  can 
not  release  his  eyes  from  the 
glorious  and  starry  glamour  that 
holds  them.  She  comes  very 
close  to  him,  so  close  that  she 
almost  touches  him.] 
[87] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

ELOISE  [in  a  half -whisper].  You  might  have 
been  happier  with — a  friend — to  climb  with 
you. 

VALSIN  [demoralized].  Citizeness — I  am — I — 
ELOISE  [in  a  voice  of  velvet].     Yes.     Say  it. 
You  are — 

VALSIN  [desperately].  I  have  told  you  that 
I  am  the  most  susceptible  of  men. 

ELOISE  [impulsively  putting  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder].  Is  it  a  crime?  Come,  my  friend, 
you  are  a  man  who  does  climb :  you  will  go  over 
all.  You  believe  in  the  Revolution  because  you 
have  used  it  to  lift  you.  But  other  things  can 
help  you,  too.  Don't  you  need  them? 

VALSIN  [understanding  perfectly,  gasping]. 
Need  what? 

[She  draws  her  hand  from  his 
shoulder,  moves  back  from  him 
slightly,  and  crosses  her  arms 
upon  her  bosom  with  a  royal 
meekness.] 

ELOISE  [grandly].  Do  I  seem  so  useless? 
VALSIN  [in  a  distracted  voice].  Heaven  help 
me!    What  do  you  want? 
ELOISE.  Let  these  people  go. 

[Hurriedly,  leaning  near  him.] 
[88] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

I  have  promised  to  save  them:  give  them  their 
permit  to  embark,  and  I — 

[She  pauses,  flushing  beautifully, 
but  does  not  take  her  eyes  from 
him.] 

I — I  do  not  wish  to  leave  France.  My  place 
is  in  Paris.  You  will  go  into  the  National 
Committee.  You  can  be  its  ruler.  You  will 
rule  it !  I  believe  in  you !  [Glowing  like  a  rose 
of  fire.]  I  will  go  with  you.  I  will  help  you ! 
I  will  marry  you! 

VALSIN  [in  a  fascinated  whisper].  Good  Lord! 
[He  stumbles  back  from  her,  a 
strange  light  in  his  eyes.] 
ELOISE.  You  are  afraid — 
VALSIN  [with  sudden  loudness].  I  am!   Upon 
my  soul,  I  am  afraid! 

ELOISE  [smiling  gloriously  upon  him].  Of 
what,  my  friend?  Tell  me  of  what? 

VALSIN  [explosively].  Of  myself!  I  am 
afraid  of  myself  because  I  am  a  prophet.  This 
is  precisely  what  I  foretold  to  myself  you  would 
do!  I  knew  it,  yet  I  am  aghast  when  it  hap 
pens — aghast  at  my  own  cleverness! 

ELOISE  [bewildered  to  blankness].  What? 
VALSIN    [half    hysterical    with    outrageous 
7  [89] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

vanity].  I  swear  I  knew  it,  and  it  fits  so  exactly 
that  I  am  afraid  of  myself!  Aha,  Valsin,  you 
rogue!  I  should  hate  to  have  you  on  my 
track!  Citizen  governess,  you  are  a  wonderful 
person,  but  not  so  wonderful  as  this  devil  of  a 
Valsin ! 

ELOISE  [vaguely,  in  a  dead  voice].  I  cannot 
understand  what  you  are  talking  about.  Do 
you  mean — 

VALSIN.  And  what   a  spell  was  upon  me! 

I  was  near  calling  Dossonville  to  preserve  me. 

ELOISE  [speaking  with  a  strange  naturalness, 

like  a  child's].  You  mean — you  don't  want  me? 

VALSIN.  Ah,  Heaven  help  me,  I  am  going 

to  laugh  again!     Oh,  ho,  ho!     I  am  spent! 

[He  drops  into  a  chair  and  gives 
way  to  another  attack  of  uproar 
ious   hilarity.]     Ah,    ha,    ha,    ha! 
Oh,  my  liver,  ha,  ha!     No,  Citizeness,  I  do  not 
want  you!     Oh,  ha,  ha,  ha! 
ELOISE.  Oh! 

[She  utters  a  choked  scream  and 
rushes  at   him.] 
Swine! 

VALSIN  [warding  her  off  with  outstretched 
hands].  Spare  me!     Ha,  ha,  ha!     I  am  helpless! 
[90] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

Ho,  ho,  ho!  Citizeness,  it  would  not  be  worth 
your  while  to  strangle  a  man  who  is  already 
dying ! 

ELOISE  [beside  herself].  Do  you  dream  that 
I   meant  it  ? 

VALSIN  [feebly].  Meant  to  strangle  me? 
ELOISE  [frantic].  To  give  myself  to  you! 
VALSIN.  In  short,  to — to  marry  me! 

[He  splutters.] 

ELOISE  [furiously].  It  was  a  ruse — 
VALSIN  [soothingly].  Yes,  yes,  a  trick.     I  saw 
that  all  along. 

ELOISE    [even    more    infuriated].  For    their 
sake,  beast! 

[She  points  to  the  other  room.] 
To  save  them! 

VALSIN    [wiping    his    eyes].     Of    course,    of 
course. 

[He    rises,    stepping    quickly    to 
the  side  of  the  chair  away  from 
her  and  watching  her  warily.] 
I  knew  it  was  to  save  them.     We'll  put  it  like 
that. 

ELOISE  [in  an  anger  of  exasperation].  It  was 
that! 
VALSIN.  Yes,  yes. 

[91] 


BEAUTY    AND    THE    JACOBIN 

[Keeping  his  distance.] 

I  saw  it  from  the  first. 

[Suppressing    symptoms    of    re 
turning  mirth.] 

It   was  perfectly   plain.     You   mustn't  excite 

yourself — nothing  could  have  been  clearer! 

[A   giggle   escapes   him,    and   he 
steps    hastily    backward    as    she 
advances  upon  him.] 
ELOISE.  Poodle!    Valet!   Scum  of  the  alleys! 

Sheep    of    the    prisons!    Jailer!       Hangman! 

Assassin !   Brigand !   Horse-doctor! 

[She  hurls  the  final  epithet  at 
him  in  a  climax  of  ferocity  which 
wholly  exhausts  her;  and  she 
sinks  into  the  chair  by  the  desk, 
with  her  arms  upon  the  desk  and 
her  burning  face  hidden  in  her 
arms.  VALSIN,  morbidly  chuck 
ling,  in  spite  of  himself,  at  each  of 
her  insults,  has  retreated  farther 
and  farther,  until  he  stands  with 
his  back  against  the  door  of  the 
inner  room,  his  right  hand  behind 
him,  resting  on  the  latch.  As  her 
furious  eyes  leave  him  he  silently 
[92] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

opens  the  door,  letting  it  remain 
a  few  inches  ajar  and  keeping 
his  back  to  it.  Then,  satisfied 
that  what  he  intends  to  say  will 
be  overheard  by  those  within,  he 
erases  all  expression  from  his  face, 
and  strides  to  the  dismantled 
doorway  in  the  passage.] 
VALSIN  [calling  loudly].  Dossonville! 

[He  returns,  coming  down  briskly 
to  ELOISE.  His  tone  is  crisp 
and  soldier-like.] 

Citizeness,  I  have  had  my  great  hour.  I  pro 
ceed  with  the  arrests.  I  have  given  you  four 
plenty  of  time  to  prepare  yourselves.  Time? 
Why,  the  Emigrant  could  have  changed  clothes 
with  one  of  the  women  in  there  a  dozen  times  if 
he  had  hoped  to  escape  in  that  fashion — as 
historical  prisoners  have  won  clear,  it  is  related. 
Fortunately,  that  is  impossible  just  now;  and 
he  will  not  dare  to  attempt  it. 

DOSSONVILLE    [appearing    in    the    hallway]. 
Present,  my  chieftain! 

VALSIN  [sharply].  Attend,  Dossonville.     The 
returned    Emigrant,    Valny-Cherault,    is    for 
feited  ;  but  because  I  cherish  a  special  grievance 
[93] 


BEAUTY   AND    THE    JACOBIN 

against  him,  I  have  decided  upon  a  special 
punishment  for  him.  It  does  not  please  me 
that  he  should  have  the  comfort  and  ministra 
tions  of  loving  women  on  his  journey  to  the 
Tribunal.  No,  no;  the  presence  of  his  old 
sweetheart  would  make  even  the  scaffold  sweet 
to  him.  Therefore  I  shall  take  him  alone.  I 
shall  let  these  women  go. 

DOSSONVILLE.  What    refinement !     Admira 
ble! 

[ELOISE   slowly  rises,  staring  in 
credulously  at  VALSIN.] 

VALSIN  [picking  up  the  "permit"  from  the 
desk].  "Permit  the  Citizen  Balsage  and  his 
sister,  the  Citizeness  Virginie  Balsage,  and  his 
second  sister,  Marie  Balsage,  and  Eloise  d'An- 
ville —  Ha!  You  see,  Dossonville,  since  one 
of ,  these  three  women  is  here,  there  are  two 
in  the  other  room  with  the  Emigrant.  They 
are  to  come  out,  leaving  him  there.  First, 
however,  we  shall  disarm  him.  You  and  I  have 
had  sufficient  experience  in  arresting  aristocrats 
to  know  that  they  are  not  always  so  sensible 
as  to  give  themselves  up  peaceably,  and  I  hap 
pened  to  see  the  outline  of  a  pistol  under  the 
Emigrant's  frock  the  other  day  in  the  diligence. 
[94] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

We  may  as  well  save  one  of  us  from  a  detestable 
hole  through  the  body. 

[He  steps  toward  the  door,  speak 
ing  sharply.] 

Emigrant,  you  have  heard.  For  your  greater 
chagrin,  these  three  devoted  women  are  to 
desert  you.  Being  an  aristocrat,  you  will  pre 
tend  to  prefer  this  arrangement.  They  are 
to  leave  at  once.  Throw  your  pistol  into  this 
room,  and  I  will  agree  not  to  make  the  arrest 
until  they  are  in  safety.  They  can  reach  your 
vessel  in  five  minutes.  When  they  have  gone, 
I  give  you  my  word  not  to  open  this  door  for 
ten. 

[A  pistol  is  immediately  thrown 
out  of  the  door,  and  falls  at 
VALSIN'S  feet.  He  picks  it  up, 
his  eyes  alight  with  increasing 
excitement.] 

VALSIN  [tossing  the  pistol  to  DOSSONVILLE]. 
Call  the  lieutenant. 

[DOSSONVILLE  goes  to  the  win 
dow,  leans  out,  and  beckons. 
VALSIN  writes  hastily  at  the 
desk,  not  sitting  down.] 

"Permit  the  three  women  Balsage  to  embark 
[95] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

without  delay  upon  the  Jeune  Pierrette.  Signed : 
Valsin."  There,  Citizeness,  is  a  "permit" 
which  permits. 

[He  thrusts  the  paper  into  the 
hand  of  ELOISE,  swings  toward 
the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and 
raps  loudly  upon  it.] 

Come,  my  feminines!  Your  sailors  await  you 
— brave,  but  no  judges  of  millinery.  There's 
a  fair  wind  for  you;  and  a  grand  toilet  is 
wasted  at  sea.  Come,  charmers;  come! 

[The  door  is  half  opened,  and 
Madame  DE  LASEYNE,  white  and 
trembling  violently,  enters  quick 
ly,  shielding  as  much  as  she  can 
the  inexpressibly  awkward  figure 
of  her  brother,  behind  whom  she 
extends  her  hand,  closing  the 
door  sharply.  He  wears  the  bro 
caded  skirt  which  Madame  DE 
LASEYNE  has  taken  from  the 
portmanteau,  and  ELOISE 's  long 
mantle,  the  lifted  hood  and  Ma 
dame  DE  LASEYNE 's  veil  shroud 
ing  his  head  and  face.] 
VALSIN  [in  a  stifled  voice].  At  last!  At  last 
[96] 


o 


H,  TOUCHING  DEVOTION!  on,  SISTERS!  on, 
I.OVE!  OH,  HONEY!  OH,  PETTICOATS— 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

one  beholds  the  regal  d'Anville!    No  Amazon — 
DOSSONVILLE  [aghast].  It  looks  like — 
VALSIN  [shouting].  It  doesn't! 

[He  bows  gallantly  to  Louis.] 
A  cruel  veil,  but,  oh,  what  queenly  grace! 

[Louis    stumbles    in    the    skirt. 
VALSIN  falls  back,   clutching  at 
his  side.     But  ELOISE  rushes  to 
Louis  and   throws  herself  upon 
her  knees  at  his  feet.     She  pulls 
his  head  down  to  hers  and  kisses 
him  through  the  veil.] 
VALSIN  [madly].  Oh,  touching  devotion!  Oh, 
sisters!     Oh,    love!     Oh,    honey!     Oh,    petti 
coats — 

DOSSONVILLE  [interrupting  humbly].  The 
lieutenant,  Citizen  Commissioner. 

[He  points  to  the  hallway,  where 
the  officer  appears,  standing  at 
attention.] 

VALSIN  [wheeling].  Officer,  conduct  these 
three  persons  to  the  quay.  Place  them  on 
board  the  Jeune  Pierrette.  The  captain  will 
weigh  anchor  instantly. 

[The  officer  salutes.] 

ANNE  [hoarsely  to  Louis,  who  is  lifting  the 
[97] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

weeping  ELOISE  to  her  feet].  Quick!    In  the 
name  of — 

VALSIN.  Off  with  you! 

[Madame  DE  LASEYNE  seizes  the 
portmanteau  and  rushes  to  the 
broken  doorway,  half  dragging 
the  others  with  her.  They  go 
out  in  a  tumultuous  hurry,  fol 
lowed  by  the  officer.  ELOISE 
sends  one  last  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  VALSIN  as  she  dis 
appears,  and  one  word  of  con 
centrated  venom:  "Buffoon!"  In 
wild  spirits  he  blows  a  kiss  to  her. 
The  fugitives  are  heard  clattering 
madly  down  the  stairs.] 
DOSSONVILLE  [excitedly].  We  can  take  the 
Emigrant  now. 

[Going  to  the  inner  door.] 
Why  wait — 

VALSIN.  That  room  is  empty. 
DOSSONVILLE.  What! 

VALSIN  [shouting  with  laughter].  He's  gone! 
Not  barebacked,  but  in  petticoats:  that's  worse! 
He's  gone,  I  tell  you!  The  other  was  the 
d'Anville. 

[98] 


DOSSONVILLE.  Then  you  recog — 

VALSIN.  Imbecile,  she's  as  well  known  as  the 

Louvre!    They're    off    on    their    honeymoon! 

She'll   take  him  now!      She   will!     She  will, 

on  the  soul  of  a  prophet ! 

[He  rushes  to  the  window  and 
leans  far  out,  shouting  at  the  top 
of  his  voice :] 

Quits  with  you,  Louis!    Quits!    Quits! 

[He  falls  back  from  the  window 
and  relapses  into  a  chair,  cackling 
ecstatically.] 
DOSSONVILLE    [hoarse    with    astonishment]. 

You've    let    him    go  !      You've    let    'em    all 

go! 

VALSIN   [weak  with  laughter].  Well,   you're 

not  going  to  inform. 

[With  a  sudden  reversion  to  ex 
treme  seriousness,  he  levels  a 
sinister  forefinger  at  his  com 
panion.] 

And,   also,   take  care  of  your  health,   friend; 

remember  constantly  that  you  have  a  weak 

throat,  and  don't  you  ever  mention  this  to  my 

wife!     These  are  bad  times,  my  Dossonville, 

and  neither  you  nor  I  will  see  the  end  of  them. 
[99] 


BEAUTY   AND   THE    JACOBIN 

Good  Lord!    Can't  we  have  a  little  fun  as  we 

go  along? 

[A  fresh  convulsion  seizes  him, 
and  he  rocks  himself  pitiably 
in  his  chair.] 


[THE  CURTAIN] 


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